


The World As We Know It

by EmmaArthur



Series: The World As We Know It [1]
Category: The Gifted (TV 2017)
Genre: AU from eXtraction, Alternate Universe, But it went dark, Disabled Character, F/M, Hurt John, It was supposed to be a fix-it, John Has Issues, Lorna stays, Major John Whump, Not sure where I'm going with this, They all have issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2019-09-15 23:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 45,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16942980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaArthur/pseuds/EmmaArthur
Summary: It turns out that John is notthatbulletproof. When he shields Clarice at the summit in Charlotte, he takes a few more hits than his body can withstand.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [graphic descriptions of bullet wounds]
> 
> This is AU from the end of season one, though it should join in with at least some of the events of season 2 eventually.
> 
> I wrote this before season 2 started, with no idea where I was going. I still don't have a clue, but I also have about 6 chapters written, so maybe publishing with motivate me to keep going.
> 
> Enjoy!

John sees the bullets coming at them before the firing even starts. His powers give him a slight head start, sometimes, blinking a few seconds ahead.

It lets him run to Clarice to shield her, all the while praying Marcos can get to safety on his own, because he can't get in front of them both. His mutation makes him a little faster than most people, but this just means far too many things have the time to run through his mind before he feels the first bullet hit him.

That Clarice isn't fully safe yet, still too far in front of him. That Marcos' power is useless against a bullet coming at him. That this mission, the one he dragged them into because he just can't lose anyone else, despite Marcos' disapproval, might just be what destroys them all.

John's skin is thick, the bullet doesn't tear through when it hits his back. Neither do the next five−eight−ten. They all hurt, each hit taking his breath away, but they don't pierce him. His arms find Clarice's body almost on their own, covering her the best he can, as he gasps for air. Everything is too fast. Marcos is the only one of them with a power than can be used on the offense, but he can't evade the bullets. John doesn't think Marcos was hit, but he can't even be sure.

“Clarice, get us out of here!” he hears Marcos shout. The shower of bullets doesn't let up, and Clarice isn't moving in John's arms, not fast enough. John tries to shield her from the recoil of the bullets hitting his back, so she can get stationary enough to build a portal, but each impact takes more out of him. His body may be dense enough to stop the bullets, but it doesn't protect him from the pain.

His desperate try for stability is what loses him in the end. Clarice is still struggling to extend her portal beyond a few sparks, and Marcos is too far away to reach them. John stills as much as he can, and the abused, battered skin of his back gives way to too many bullets hitting the same spots. He feels them get through, tearing through his body, slowed and stopped by the density of his muscles.

“Now!” he shouts, lifting Clarice in his arms as she finally opens the portal. He runs, awkwardly moving crab-like to keep shielding her, until they're close enough to Marcos.

The last flight of bullets makes him stumble as he passes the portal, searing pain engulfing his back and coming down his legs, and he falls to his knees. He only barely manages to let go of Clarice so he doesn't take her with him.

“John?” Clarice asks as the portal winks out of existence behind them.

John hears her voice as if from far away. He registers vaguely that the ground underneath him is soft and wet, that the impacts on his back have stopped, that the deafening noise is gone, but the pain doesn't lessen.

“John?”

He tries to breathe, but it hurts too much. John is no stranger to pain, despite his body's extraordinary resistance to almost everything. He doesn't do a job where he can afford to avoid it. But this pain tearing through his back is worse than almost anything he's felt before.

“John, you're bleeding,” Marcos says from somewhere above him. Hands are on him, suddenly, and he wants to shake them off but he can't move. They tear at his vest, at his shirt, trying to get them off, but every move sends a fresh wave of pain through his back.

“What the hell happened?” Lorna's worried voice joins the others.

“Security got us,” Marcos says. “John took too many bullets, I think.”

“Where the hell is Campbell?” Esme asks.

John bites back a scream as his vest is ripped off him. Through his tracking power, he feels Lorna kneel beside him and cut through his shirt with one of her knives. His eyes are closed, and all his energy right now is on breathing. The rest of the conversation−shouting match, really−between Esme and Marcos escapes him.

The one thing that gets through the pain fog is the trample of guards coming from the building.

“We have to go,” John breathes, trying to straighten up and off his knees. “They're coming.”

“No, we can't!” John isn't even sure if Esme or Lorna is the one who says that. His vision is blackening around the edges, and he has to keep himself from falling on his face.

“We have to go,” Marcos repeats.

John carefully reaches up to get his arm around Marcos' shoulders, riding the fresh wave of pain. He doesn't know if the pain is actually receding or if he's just able to think through it better thanks to adrenaline, but things aren't as foggy anymore and he's able to open his eyes again.

“Come on,” Marcos whispers in his ear. “It's not far.”

Marcos can't take his whole weight, John's dense body is too heavy for anyone to lift him, but he does his best to stabilize him as John gets to his feet. The sensation of the bullets shifting inside his body as he moves is sickening, but the pain is finally nearing a level where he can breathe through it.

It allows him, at least, to take stock of his injuries. Bullets have gone through his skin in what feels like four places, though the rest of his back is probably a mess of bruises. They have mainly buried in muscle, stopped from going through by the density of his tissues. The bullet that's the origin of most of the pain, though, doesn't shift at all as John stands up, and he can't really feel the metal. It's in the middle of his back, possibly buried in a vertebra, but John has little choice but to ignore it for now.

“Few more steps.”

He leans on Marcos as little as possible getting to the car, knowing his weight could crush his friend easily. It takes them far longer than it should to get him into the passenger seat.

“There you are,” Marcos keeps up his constant stream of encouragements. John tries to hang onto it, his world reduced to pain.

Now shirtless, John groans when his wounds brush against the back of the seat and hunches over. This is the Frost sisters' car, he doesn't care much about bleeding all over it, but his back is too sore to rest against anything.

“We need to put pressure on those,” Marcos says, getting in the back seat behind John. He pushes the back of the seat between them as far back as it can go to get access to John's back. “Are the bullets still inside?”

“Yeah,” John nods after a beat. His reactions are too slow, his senses distorted and mixing up.

“Dammit. Do you have medical supplies?” Marcos asks Esme, who is behind the wheel.

“At the house,” she says. “I'm afraid we prepared for interrogations more than for medical emergencies, though.”

“Clarice, can you keep pressure on these?” Marcos asks, shifting to let Clarice closer to where John is trying to straighten up. He hands her John's ruined jacket and guides her to press on two of the wounds on John's left side. John groans and fights his instinct to get away, while Esme brings the car onto the interstate.

John manages to stay more or less coherent through the ride back to the safe house, and to get inside on his own. It's for the best, because none of the others could actually carry him if they tried. He let them sit him down on a stool and take a closer look at his wounds without protest, too wiped out to pretend he's fine.

“We need Lorna to get the bullets out,” Marcos says. “Where is she?”

“I don't know, she was just here,” Clarice says, looking around.

John looks up from where he's sitting hunched over a table, Marcos and Clarice still trying to slow the bleeding with the packs of gauze they found in the bathroom. His back is on fire, but he's regained that clarity of mind that escaped him earlier.

“She left about ten minutes ago,” he says, letting his perception shift to the past. He didn't notice her leaving when she did, which is not a good sign as to his state of health, but he can't ponder on that right now.

Stars fill his vision before he finds the strength to go any further. He sways, catching himself on the edge of the table. He's lost too much blood.

“John!” Clarice exclaims.

John painfully turns toward her, then looks down where she's pointing to the table. The wood is cracking around his hand.

“Damn,” he says, removing his hand. It's been a while since he's lost track of his own body this badly.

“I'll go look for Lorna,” Marcos says.

John wants to tell him to wait, that he can find her quicker, but it's beyond him at the moment. He slumps over instead, letting himself lean fully on the table. He's tired.

“John, stay with me,” Clarice urges, distressed. “You can't go to sleep right now.”

She has her hands full trying to keep pressure on all his wounds at once, and John can't see her since she's behind him, but he struggles to keep his eyes open. “'m okay,” he murmurs.

“No you're not,” Clarice says. “You've got holes in your back.”

“I know,” John answers.

He doesn't know how long he fights the urge to close his eyes, but Marcos's return startles him.

“I can't find Lorna,” he says.

John frowns, shaking his head to clear it. Straightening up with a hiss of pain, he opens his senses as far as they can go.

“She's gone,” he says. “And she's not the only one.”

“What do you mean?”

“She left with two of the sisters. I don't know−”

John barely catches himself when new pain erupts down his back, spreading down his legs. He groans.

“Something's wrong,” he says. “We need to go after her.”

“You can't move right now,” Clarice says. “We have to get those bullets out of you.”

“And we can't do that without Lorna,” John says, the rush of adrenaline clearing his mind. “Don't worry about me. Just dress the wounds the best you can so I don't bleed out.”

“But−”

“Look, we don't have time for this. We need to know what's going on.”

“Fine,” Clarice relents. Marcos looks torn between looking for Lorna and taking care of his best friend, but he nods.

Between the two of them, they pack John's wounds with gauze and make the best pressure bandages they can manage. John endures it all stoically, bracing himself on the ruined table, though he can feel his strength seeping out of him. Marcos helps him into a shirt and hands him a bottle of water, hoping to replace some of the blood he's lost.

Though he's limping worse with every step, John doesn't take Marcos's proffered arm to help him walk, unwilling to risk crushing his friend. Between his weight and his current inability to properly feel his body, he can't trust himself. He tries not to show how much each movement feels like fire running up and down his legs and back.

There's something wrong with his body that's more than a few bullets tearing through skin and muscles, but he can't deal with that right now. They need to find Lorna.

 

They're too late.

Seeing Lorna ready to bring down a plane, of all things, gives John the strength to try to stop her, but she doesn't let him. He can only feel vaguely relieved that she uses barbed wire to do that and not the bullets in his back, but Lorna's not cruel. She's angry, always full of righteous rage, perhaps even more since she got out of prison, but she doesn't want to hurt her friends.

John stumbles in front of the barbed wire and nearly falls to his knees. He catches himself, barely, against Clarice until she bends under his weight. His legs are starting to feel like lead, and he has a hard time finding his balance again.

“This isn't why the X-Men chose us,” he tries to shout at Lorna. His voice is stupidly weak and tired.

“The X-Men made a mistake,” Lorna says. “This is who I am.”

John closes his eyes, dismayed. If Lorna does this, it will mean the failure of everything they've built together. Lorna is capable of this, of wanting this, John has always known that, but he's tried his best to protect her.

“I'm tired of hiding.”

He's failed.

“This changes everything,” Marcos shouts. “This will change everything.”

The desperation in his voice is the one they all feel, yet he's the only one who still holds on to faith. John let go of his long ago.

He already knows Lorna is going to do it whatever they try.

He sways again, grunting.

“You alright?” Clarice murmurs while Lorna and Marcos argue.

“Yeah,” John says. He's not the one they need to worry about right now, but he's fading fast.

“It's time to make a new world,” is the only thing he catches from Lorna's last words.

His senses a mess of pain and confusion, he doesn't even notice the plane taking off before it starts coming apart in the air. They all look on, fascinated, as it catches on fire above them, and starts falling.

What's left of the place explodes the moment it touches the ground, close, too close to them. John's brain is too foggy to anticipate what he should know is coming, the blast of air and heat that throws them the the ground. He can't shield Clarice or Marcos, and they are projected violently onto the hard dirt floor.

The last thing John feels before blacking out is agony exploding down his back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter two, with a lot of angst. Enjoy and tell me what you think!

“John? John?” Clarice's voice gets more insistent as she shakes John's shoulder to try to wake him up.

The plane exploding as it crashed threw them all to the ground, and it took her and Marcos a while to get their bearings back, shaking off the rubble and cataloging new bruises. It took them longer to realize that Lorna is gone and John isn't getting up. Both things are wrong on so many levels that they barely bear thinking about.

The explosion was nowhere near bad enough to hurt John, for one. He should have shrugged it off, barely phased, while the two of them came out with shrapnel cuts and ringing ears. But he's lying there, unresponsive, and Clarice can't wake him up.

Marcos is still looking at where Lorna stood just minutes ago, lost.

“Marcos!” Clarice shouts, trying to snap him out of it. He looks down at her, slowly. “He's not waking up.”

Marcos kneels beside them, shaking his head to get back to the present. “John!”

It takes another minute of them shaking him, trying not to look at the stains of blood coming through his bandages and his shirt, before John gasps in pain. He starts coughing roughly, each movement of his body looking like agony.

“John? John, calm down, don't try to move,” Clarice tries to soothe him.

“What−” John asks weakly, once the coughing lets up enough. He hasn't tried to sit up, or even to turn around, still on his front with his face in the dirt.

“You passed out,” Marcos says with a worried frown. “How−”

“That can wait,” Clarice interrupts him. “Can you sit up?” she asks John instead.

John doesn't answer for a while, breathing laboriously. “John?”

“Can't move,” he says slowly. “I can't… I can't feel my legs.”

“What?” Clarice chokes out. Her hands hover over John, wanting to...do _something_ , but there's nothing she can do that won't risk hurting him.

Marcos comes back from his shock a little earlier than she does. “John, what do we−”

“We need to get out of here,” John says weakly. He tries to support himself on his arms to sit up, but he falls back down with a suppressed groan.

Clarice and Marcos exchange a glance. Marcos's eyes are wide with fear.

“We can't move you,” Clarice says, hating the tremor in her voice.

She doesn't remember learning about it, but it's something she's always known, that you shouldn't move someone with a back or neck injury.

“I don't think we have a choice,” Marcos says. “The police will be here within a few minutes, and they'll sweep the area. We can't be here when they do.”

“Clarice,” John murmurs. Clarice bends down closer to his mouth to hear his too weak voice. “If they get here, make a portal and go. Don't bother with me.”

“I'm not leaving you behind,” Clarice shakes her head.

“You might have to. Promise me you won't get caught again.”

Clarice looks away rather than answering, tears in her eyes.  With a grunt of pain, John catches her wrist in his hand, too strongly.  Their eyes meet, and she can see he's as lost as she is. He's just too used to think of protecting them as his job.

“We have to move him,” Marcos says.

Putting aside her thoughts as to how dangerous that is, knowing they don't have the luxury to wait, Clarice eyes the distance between them and the car. There's no way they can carry John even a few  feet , and this is far more than that.

“I can make a portal,” she says. “But it's gonna hurt.”

“Don't worry about that,” John mutters.

Even here, lying with his face  in the dirt, John is still trying  to be the strong one.

“We need to get him onto his side,” Clarice tells Marcos. “He won't fit into the car otherwise. I can portal him to the back seat, but he needs to be in the right position.”

Marcos winces, but nods.

“Okay, buddy,” he says, kneeling closer to John. “I'm gonna help you turn, alright?”

John nods weakly, releasing Clarice's wrist to hold his arm out to Marcos.  Moving him as minimally as possible, Marcos manages to get him onto his side, though John has to repress yet another cry of pain, his face scrunched up in agony.

Marcos slowly, inch by inch, brings John's legs up to get him in a fetal position, struggling against the weight of them.

“Can you feel that at all?” he asks.

“No,” John breathes out. “Only in my back.”

Marcos bites his lips, and Clarice feels a tear escape down her cheek. She shakes her head, refusing to let herself get overwhelmed by the situation.

“Marcos, can you bring the car around and open the back door? It's gonna be a tight fit, I really need to see where I'm going.”

Marcos nods and stands up. Clarice takes John's hand in hers and gently removes his hair from his face with the other. “It's gonna be okay,” she murmurs almost against her will, just for something to say.

John gives her a brief disbelieving look before he tenses against another wave of pain, but he doesn't say anything.

“Clarice!” Marcos calls.

“Hurry,” John murmurs in her hand. “They'll be here in a minute.”

Clarice looks up to see Marcos parked to give her a clear view of the back seat. She lets go of John's hand and concentrates, perhaps more than she's even concentrated in her life. It's completely different from opening a portal to a location far away, like the one that made her sick. This time she's trying for precision.

The portal opens right under both John and her, and a moment later they're in the car. Clarice didn't account too much for where she ended up, so she finds herself scrambling not to fall down into the space between the front and back seats, but John is perfectly aligned across the back seats. He still bites back a scream as the short fall jostles his back.

“You okay?” Clarice whispers to him, gently lifting his head so she can sit and put it in her lap.

John just nods, teeth still gritted in pain. Marcos appears by the open door, a questioning look on her face.

“We're good,” Clarice says. “Get us out of here.”

 

Thirty minutes into their trip back, Marcos doesn't think things could get any worse. His best friend is lying on the back seat of the car, barely conscious, moaning in pain at every bump in the road, and he _can't feel his legs_. Lorna is gone, and Marcos can't stop thinking about what's going to happen now, with the baby, with John, with everything that's suddenly gone wrong in their lives.

When he finally manages to get a hold of Sage on his burn phone, it turns out it  _can_ get worse.

“Don't come back to Atlanta,” she says. “Headquarters's fallen.”

“What?” Marcos exclaims, startling Clarice who is still looking after John in the back. “What happened?”

“Sentinel Services found us. We got everyone out, but we have to move.”

“Dammit!” Marcos gives in to his impulse to punch the wheel, only to regret it when it makes the car swerve wildly and John cries out in pain. “Sorry,” he says with a look behind him. Clarice meets his eyes grimly.

“Where are you going?” he asks Sage.

“The meet point is the Nashville station, I'll text you the address. They're already over maximal capacity, but it's our only station left in the area. We can spend the night there, maybe a couple of days, but then we'll have to move again.”

“We'll meet you there,” Marcos says. “And Sage? We've had some troubles on our end too. John's hurt.”

“What? How?”

“I'll explain later, but can you do me a favor? Tell Caitlin we're going to need her, and as many medical supplies as possible. And could you tell me if you hear anything about Lorna?”

“Isn't she with you?” Sage asks.

“She left. It's complicated.”

“Alright. I'll keep an ear open.”

“Thanks, Sage. We've got a seven-hour drive in front of us, and we'll probably have to take breaks along the way, so don't expect us until the middle of the night, alright?”

“Okay,” Sage says. “Drive safe.”

“You too. Tell me when you get there.”

“I will.”

Marcos hangs up and tosses the phone onto the passenger seat.

“How is he doing?” he asks Clarice, catching her eye in the rear-view mirror.

“Not great,” Clarice says.

Marcos sighs. Contrary to Clarice, he's seen John injured before, he knows his friend isn't as invincible as he'd like everyone to believe, but  this still seems...impossible.

B ut then everything that's happened today seems impossible.

“We're not going back to headquarters,” he says. “It's gone. We're going to Nashville.”

“What happened?” Clarice asks.

“Sentinel Services,” Marcos says. “I don't know, she didn't give me details.”

“Damn. This just keeps getting worse, doesn't it?”

Marcos nods tensely. Hearing an incoming text, he opens his phone with one hand to find the address Sage promised him, with directions.

“Marcos?” Clarice calls quietly from the back seat.

“Yes?”

“I don't know if John's gonna make it to Nashville.”

Marcos feels the blood draining from his face. He can't lose John. The Underground can't afford it, especially not after today's events, but more than that, Marcos can't.

“I don't think we have a choice,” he answers anyway. “We can't go to a hospital, they'll see he's a mutant right away.”

“I know,” Clarice chokes out. Marcos sees the tears running down her face in the rear-view mirror. She's holding John's head on her lap, taking care that his back doesn't hit the seats. John is barely moving, but he winces at every bump in the road.

“We'll take as many breaks as we need, but I think Caitlin's the only one who can help him now,” Marcos says. “If she even can,” he adds to himself.

 

John is too out of it to keep track of time, but the trip feels like an eternity, lying there across the back seats, feeling every movement of the car in his body like knives tearing through his flesh. It's not even a good analogy, because few people could stab him violently enough to break his skin, but he imagines it's what it would feel like.

At some point, Clarice tells him that their Headquarters are blown−maybe several times, he's not coherent enough to remember. Things keep replaying in his head, the plane going down over their head, the bullets tearing through his skin, Clarice kissing him, Lorna's rage and his helplessness. Then it goes back further, to Sonya's memorial and the last time she kissed him. To kneeling over Gus and watching him die. To driving a Jeep through the desert and seeing the bomb too late, just before it explodes, to the horror and fear on his Marine brothers' faces blown away by the blast.

At this point, he makes an involuntary movement to shield himself, and the fire exploding down his back brings him back to the present. His body arches in a silent scream, still, almost despite himself, trying to hold it in.

“John! John, it's okay, calm down.” Clarice's voice is soothing, but he can barely hear it over the pain. “Marcos, we need to take a break. It's too much.”

“I can't stop right now, but there's an exit coming up in five miles,” Marcos says.

They stop in the middle of nowhere, because they can't risk being spotted in a gas station. Thankfully the tank was full when they left and it's large enough to take them to Nashville.

Marcos and Clarice don't try to move John, and he's grateful for that. He feels like moving his pinky right now would hurt. He's tired. Too tired.

Yet his body won't give him the respite of unconsciousness. There's a kind of instinctive fear that if he falls asleep now he won't wake up. He doesn't know if it comes from his tracking ability, if his senses are turning inward to warn him about his own body, or if it's pure survival instinct, but he's somehow holding on.

“He's losing too much blood,” Clarice says. “He's really pale and his skin is clammy.”

“'m okay,” John murmurs, for what feels like the hundredth time, and it's less true every time.

Clarice strokes his face gently, so lightly that it's just on the edge of what he can perceive. He doesn't dare take her hand, too afraid to hurt her. He knows he can't control his strength, can't control his body properly right now, and even as weak as he feels, he could break her bones.

Marcos has come over to the back of the car at some point. “John...is there anything we can do?” he asks.

“...no,” John mumbles. “Just...drive.”

“Okay,” Marcos says in a conciliatory tone. “We'll do that, but we're taking a short rest first, alright? Can you feel that?”

John lowers his head minutely to see Marcos's hand on his knee. He concentrates as hard as he can, but there's nothing.

“No,” he answers.

Marcos sighs. John looks away. It hasn't had time to sink in, what this means. He knows he should be afraid, terrified even, but he's too tired and hurting for that.

It's a bizarre sensation, or rather lack thereof. John has always had trouble with feeling his own body properly, a side effect of his mutation, but this is different. He tries to move his legs, and there's...nothing. He can see Marcos's hand on his leg, but he doesn't even get the dull touch he's used to.

When Marcos shifts his legs so they fit more securely onto the seat, though, John gasps at the pain in his back. It sets another crisis in motion, sending him into a round of agonizing coughing while Clarice tries to hold his head up. He can't breathe, and lying on his side is not helping, but Marcos and Clarice's efforts to sit him up just make it worse.

The coughing fit relents after what feels like an hour, and John lies his head back down onto Clarice's lap, exhausted.

“It's getting worse. The bandages will be soaked through soon,” Clarice remarks, looking at his back. “We don't have more.”

“I can stop at a pharmacy somewhere,” Marcos answers. “It will be a risk, but they might not have put our faces out yet. I have a little cash left over, should be enough to get supplies.”

Clarice sighs. John wants to tell Marcos not to put himself in danger for him, but he's too wiped out to speak. And the truth is that he doesn't see how he's going to make it through another six hours of this.

And that's not even counting the fact that Caitlin probably won't be able to do anything for him when they get there.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes another hour before they dare stopping at a pharmacy at the edge of a small town, far enough off the Interstate that the risk of the police being around is minimal. Marcos parks the car nearly a mile away from the first house, hidden behind bushes.

“I'll go,” he says to Clarice, if only because talking somehow makes all this a little easier to bear. “What do we need?”

“Gauze, pressure bandages, disinfectant...just grab a first aid kit. And oral painkillers, the strongest you can get.”

“Won't work,” John mumbles weakly.

Marcos startles at his voice. “I thought you were asleep,” he says.

Clarice shakes her head. Marcos winces, thinking of his friend enduring the unending drive without respite. “Why won't it work?”

“Weird...metabolism,” John answers. “Not much effect.”

“Damn,” Marcos murmurs. “I don't have a better idea, so I'll get some anyway. Anything else?”

Clarice shakes her head, unable to think of anything.

“Gatorade,” John says slowly. “Good for...blood loss.”

He's probably the most experienced in field medicine of the three of them, so Marcos nods. “I'll see what I can find.”

“Get some straws too, so we don't have to sit him up to drink,” Clarice says.

“Alright. You okay to stay here for a little while?”

“Not...going an'where,” John murmurs, and both Marcos and Clarice laugh softly, though all they really want to do is cry.

It takes Marcos nearly an hour all in all to walk down the dark road to the pharmacy and back, and get what they need. The pharmacist looks suspicious at his requests, and he barely has enough money to pay for the whole. The fact that his hands are shaking all along, nearly burning through his wallet, doesn't make things any easier, but he manages to hide it. It wouldn't do to get the police called on him.

The walk back, in the dark as soon as he passes the last of the houses up the road, gives him plenty of time to run through the worst scenarios in his mind. What if John bleeds out before they make it to Nashville? What if he dies before Marcos even makes it back to the car?

Marcos nearly runs the last few yards, only impeded by the fact that he can barely see were he's going. The very thought of losing John, impervious, indestructible John, the one who got them through all this…

Marcos slams open the back door of the car in a panic. Clarice startles at the noise, and her jump makes John bite back a moan. The two of them haven't moved at all, John still lying on his side across the seats, his head on Clarice's lap.

“Did you get everything?” Clarice asks. “I was starting to worry.”

Marcos takes one look at John's back and understands why. Clarice's hand, the one that isn't stroking John's hair away from his face, is covered in blood, pressing against one of the wounds where the soaked bandages are not stemming the blood flow anymore.

“Yeah, I've got it,” he says, holding up the bag. “We'll need to get him upright to change the bandages though.”

Clarice nods. “John?” she asks in a murmur, bending close to his ear.

John opens his eyes, sluggishly, after a while.

“We need you to sit up,” Clarice says.

“'kay,” John murmurs. He tries to pull himself up on his elbow, but immediately winces and falls back down. It sends him into a coughing fit, agony ripping through his body.

“We need more space,” Marcos says, giving up on trying to help him from outside the car.

He walks to the other side and pulls the front seat forward and down as far as it will go. Inserting himself, awkwardly, in the newly created space, he gently pulls John's exposed arm around his shoulders until he can help his friend up. He has to shift around to get John's legs off the seat when he realizes John can't do it himself. He feels tears coming up to his eyes.

John is panting and groaning in pain, but he's alert enough to keep himself upright, half propped up on the back of the driver seat. Marcos and Clarice, working together, do their best to remove the soiled dressings, clean his wounds, and make new pressure bandages without moving him too much, but it's still a long and painful process, and John is on the verge of passing out once they're done.

“Clarice, I think you should drive for a while,” Marcos says, taking the bloody gauze off the seats and shoving it into the now empty pharmacy bag. Clarice is coaxing John into drinking from the Gatorade bottle despite his exhaustion, and she looks at him with desperation in her eyes. But Marcos looks back determinedly. It will do both of them some good to exchange places.

“Fine,” Clarice relents. She murmurs something in John's ear and squeezes his hand before she slips out of the car. Marcos goes around to take her place, and between us they get John situated on his side again.

Marcos can feel the clamminess of his skin, the tremor running through him, the tension in his body at every bump in the road. Looking at Clarice's worried, closed-up face in the rear-view mirror, he wonders what's the worst position, driving with the fear of something bad happening behind his back or watching his friend bleed out and being unable to do anything about it.

 

By the time they make it to the address Sage gave Marcos, Clarice is fighting hard with herself to keep in the tears of exhaustion and fear and shared pain. Marcos and her have exchanged places a few more times, although it tore Clarice's heart apart to let go of John every time, but neither of them have managed to sleep or even nod off.

They stopped once more to change John's bandages again, and half a dozen times to simply give him a break and get him to drink, but John has held on until now. His cough has gotten worse, turning into heaving on an empty stomach, but he's still breathing easily enough that Clarice doesn't think the bullets damaged his lungs. He's been less coherent with every hour, muttering incomprehensibly and asking the same questions over and over, but he somehow never lost consciousness.

Clarice runs a hand through his hair, matted with sweat, while Marcos runs inside the building. Seconds later, he's back to the car with Caitlin and Sage and he opens the back door.

“What happened?” Caitlin asks urgently, recoiling in shock at the sight of the blood-soaked bandages covering John's back.

“The guards shot at us,” Clarice says, too out of sorts to bother with giving context. “He shielded me.”

“I thought he was bulletproof.”

“Near bulletproof,” Marcos corrects her. “Even he can't withstand that much firepower.”

“We need to get him inside,” Caitlin says.

“He's too heavy to carry,” Clarice says. “And we might make it worse. But I can portal him, just show me where.”

“We have a table set up, I can take you,” Sage says.

Clarice looks down at John again, pale and clammy and immobile but for his labored breathing, and nods. With practiced ease, she slips out from under him, removing his head from her lap and holding it gently until Marcos takes over.

The station is mainly one large room, in what looks like a garage, but she can only glimpse a few people she knows before Sage takes her into a smaller back room. Clarice takes in the exact location of the table, picturing it in her mind as exactly as possible, and runs back out to the car. She takes her time creating her portal underneath John, making sure that the move is as comfortable as possible, then she lets it blink out and makes another portal for her friends to step through.

Caitlin has them recount every event leading to this, everything they've already done, while she takes off the bandages and cleans the wounds as well as possible. Her grim look at the news that John can't feel his legs confirms Clarice's fears that it's bad.

She nearly has a panic attack right there and then. She's been holding it in for too long, and the sight of John lying on his front on the low table, his exposed back a sickly shade of purple with the wounds oozing blood, sends her right over the edge. Marcos picks up on her swaying and rapid breathing and catches her, hugging her tight and turning her away from John.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “It's okay, we'll be okay.”

For a while, Clarice can only return the hug, her mind flashing incoherently through the worst scenarios as tears flow down her face. The fatigue wins in the end, and her heartbeat slows to synchronize with Marcos's. He lets her go carefully and she sinks to her knees in front of John's head.

His eyes are open, though glazed over, and he's watching her with concern. “You 'kay?” he asks tiredly.

Clarice nods. “Don't worry about me,” she says.

“...others?”

“Everyone's fine,” Clarice says, but she looks over at Sage for confirmation.

“It was close, but we got everyone out,” she says.

Caitlin presses the last bottle of Gatorade and a straw into Clarice's hand. “Can you get him to drink? We need to replace the blood he's lost. I don't have any IV fluids and he has all the symptoms of shock.”

Clarice nods and waits for John's slow blink of consent to slip the straw into his mouth. It's awkward, with John lying on his front with his head to the side, and he starts coughing again after just a few sips. Clarice strokes his face until the coughing subsides and John slips back into the half-conscious state he was in for most of the trip.

“I need to get the bullets out,” Caitlin says.

“Yeah, that might be complicated,” Marcos sighs. “His skin is very dense. You can try, but...”

Caitlin takes a scalpel and holds it to the flame of a lighter to sterilize it. They have almost no medical material, only the relics of a used first-aid and suture kit, stripped of all perishables. She brings the blade down to John's back, but even Clarice from her horizontal vantage point can see that it won't even nick John's skin.

Caitlin shakes her head. “I can't widen the hole, his tissues are too hard. I don't even know how the bullets got in.”

“I think it's because there were so many,” Clarice says. “His skin just couldn't resist it all. There must have been at least a half a hundred shots.”

“God,” Caitlin murmurs. “The bullets aren't deep, I can almost see this one, but I can't get them out.”

“So what do we do?” Clarice asks.

“If we had Lorna−” Marcos starts.

Clarice turns toward him brusquely. “Lorna's gone, Marcos.”

Marcos's eyes flash with anger, but he doesn't say anything. Clarice deflates and turns back to John, who is muttering again. He doesn't seem to have even felt Caitlin's attempt to cut his skin, though he still hisses every time his wounds are jostled.

“What about his legs?” Clarice asks.

Caitlin points to the bullet hole halfway down John's back. “I think this one's embedded in his spine, and it must have damaged his spinal cord. Or it might just be pressing on it, it's hard to tell. We won't know more until we can remove the bullet. And I don't know how to do that.”

“I can go see if we have anyone here with a mutation that could help, though I don't see… We need to update Sage and the others anyway,” Marcos says.

Clarice tries to think of all the abilities she's seen so far, but she can't think of one that would take bullets out of John's body. Unless…

“Lauren, maybe? You said she helped when Harry was shot, didn't you?”

“Yes, she stopped the bleeding long enough for me to stitch him up,” Caitlin confirms. “But this is different.”

“It's worth a try,” Marcos says. “I'll send her back here.”

While he walks out, Clarice goes to take one of the buckets of water stored in a corner of the room and finds a washcloth. She gently wipes John's face and neck, trying to get the cold sweat off. John, still too out of it to even open his eyes, leans into the touch with a sigh.

Caitlin quickly brings Lauren up to speed when she comes in, though the girl looks as exhausted as Clarice feels. She approaches John, and Clarice stands to put a hand on her shoulder. A look of understanding passes between them. When she told Lauren she'd have to take a stand, to stop running, this isn't what Clarice was thinking of. They both know it.

Lauren looks away and concentrates, one hand hovering over John, but it doesn't last. She shakes her head. “I can't do it,” she says. “To get the bullets out, I'd have to solidify the air underneath, but there's no air there, only blood. And I already have trouble with water, so blood...I can't.”

“Are you sure?” Clarice asks, catching Lauren's wrist almost unconsciously as she steps back.

“Yes. I'm sorry.”

Clarice releases her, looking away from her pleading face, and Caitlin's frown.

“Then what do we do?” she asks, sinking back down to her knees, if only to remove John's battered, bloody back from her line of sight.

“I don't know,” Caitlin says. “He's already lost too much blood, and I doubt I can get a needle inside him for a transfusion. I'll try to stem the bleeding, but−” She hesitates. “I don't have a long term solution.”

Clarice closes her eyes and feels a tear coming down her cheek. She buries her face in John's hair, resting her chin on the edge of the table.

“...rice?” John asks weakly.

“Yeah, it's me,” she murmurs.

“'kay?”

Clarice raises her head again to look at him. His eyes are barely open, but they're mostly clear for the first time in hours. His voice is rough, though, and the slightest movement turns into a coughing fit. Clarice holds his hand as he heaves painfully, too weak to even get his head off the table, and gets him to sip some water when it calms down.

“We don't know what to do,” she whispers, wiping his forehead again. “Unless Lorna comes back...”

John squeezes her hand. “I know,” he murmurs back. “It's okay.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [bullet wounds, graphic description of medical(ish) procedures, mentions of war injuries, pain and blood]
> 
> I'm back with a new chapter, after my publication schedule got messed up by the holidays. Lots of angst in this one, slightly longer than usual as I couldn't cut it where I wanted.
> 
> Publication will be spaced out a little more from now on, because I've just started posting yet a new AU, called The Underground. It's the story I work on when this one gets too intense :)
> 
> [spoilers for 2x10] Also that episode! I can't believe they used John's enhanced hearing the way they did, and also never expected John to get hurt this much this season, after he didn't even get a scratch in season 1. Short super-angsty post-episode story coming up soon, 'cause I couldn't resist.

“There is nothing noble about struggle, Marcos. And sacrifice is just a pretty name for losing.”

Lorna strides into the room, trying to appear more confident than she really is by tapping deeply into her anger. She nearly stops at the sight of Marcos, looking more lost than she's even seen him, but Esme's presence behind her buoys her.

“Lorna, what are you doing?”

“I'm telling them the truth,” Lorna answers. “The Mutant Underground is dying. That world where we don't have to hide that we've always talked about? I want to build that. For all of us.”

She notices the uneasiness around her. Some of the mutants are listening, grim but determined, but there is a look on Reed Strucker's face, on Lauren−

And Marcos doesn't look rebellious. He just looks defeated.

“That baby is ours,” he says, but there is no real fight in his voice. “And this is where your family is.”

Lorna looks around, really looks. He's right, these people are her family. Some of them may go with her tonight, but she's going to lose everyone else. She's been focusing on Marcos, because he's the one she really wants to get through to−she knows now that she won't. If he were at least willing to fight−

But something's wrong. John is missing. So are Clarice and Caitlin Strucker, but that's not as important. John should be here, always on the front line of everything they do. He's nowhere she can see.

“Where's John?”

Marcos looks away, with an involuntary movement of his head toward the back of the room. There's an open door there, and through it Lorna glimpses Caitlin, on her knees in front of a low table, turned toward them to listen. The look she gives Lorna is defiant and sad.

“Lorna−” Esme starts behind her, taking her arm.

“Let me go,” Lorna hisses, shaking her off.

Walking closer, she can see what was hidden before. John is lying on the table, on his front, his back exposed. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he's shaking, muttering in his fever, his eyes closed. The wounds on his back look worse than they did earlier, open and oozing with blood, surrounded by a mass of bruises.

Lorna frowns. John was hurting, but fine when she left. He's always fine.

“What happened?” she asks.

“Why do you care?” Clarice's voice says from where she's sitting on the floor close to John's head, wiping his face with a wet cloth. She throws the cloth aside and stands up in one fluid move. “You've already done enough damage.”

“What do you mean?” Lorna asks, coming closer. The circle of mutants seems to close around her, keeping Esme away from her. Most of them look openly hostile now. Lorna has never felt so alone.

Marcos appears at her side. “He's been getting worse. We can't remove the bullets from his back. One of the bullets shifted and damaged his spine.”

“What? You mean−” Lorna chokes on her words.

“That he's paralyzed, yes,” Caitlin says. “I don't know if it's permanent. But we won't have time to find out if I can't get those bullets out.”

Lorna puts a hand over her mouth, suddenly nauseous. John can't be−

Suddenly what she's come here to do seems childish and selfish. These people are her friends, the only family she has. Is she really ready to abandon them because they don't agree on everything? Because they're not ready to do what she's willing to try?

Not when one of them is in danger. Not when her best friend is−

Dying. John is going to die if they don't do anything, and she can help.

“I can take the bullets out,” she says.

Her best friend is going to die, and it's her fault. She didn't take the bullets out of him when she had the chance. She left and didn't look back.

“Lorna, what are you doing?” Esme shouts from where she's been neatly contained by the door. “Don't you remember what you came here for?”

“I remember,” Lorna says. “But I'm not abandoning them.”

“You already have,” Clarice spits. “This is your fault.” But behind the anger, there's a kind of desperation in her eyes as she looks between Lorna and John.

“Yes. And I'm sorry. But right now, I'm his best chance,” Lorna answers.

Clarice takes a step back and nods, though she doesn't take her eyes off Lorna.

“Esme, I think you should go now,” Lorna says slowly, turning toward the telepath.

Esme looks around her. She's alone, amid a circle of clearly hostile mutants. Her powers aren't strong enough to contain them all, and even if she could, it would defeat her purpose.

“Anyone wants to build a better world for mutants, and isn't afraid to do what it takes, you can come to me,” she says, retreating, but it sounds weak.

No one moves, and she seems smaller, younger somehow, inoffensive, as she gets out the door. She knows no one here trusts her. She was counting on Lorna to get more mutants on their side, but on her own, she's nothing.

Lorna waits until the door slams behind her to fall to her knees beside John.

“Tell me,” she asks Caitlin.

“The main priority right now is to get the bullets out with minimal damage. His skin is too solid for me to cut through, so I can't reach them.”

“Then we'll have to get them out the way they came,” Lorna says, fighting against the nausea. She's never seen John look this bad.

“Can you feel them?” Caitlin asks.

“Yes. There are four−no, five of them. There's two bullets in this one,” Lorna says, indicating one of the wounds.

“Alright, then start there,” Caitlin points to the hole highest on John's back, close to his left shoulder. “We'll keep the one in his spine for last, it's going to be delicate.”

Lorna looks around her. All the mutants in the room are still watching them. “Can you give us some space please?” she asks.

She sees the hesitation on everyone's face, until Marcos nods beside her to confirm her request. Is it going to be like this now? Has she lost their trust altogether?

Breathing a little better once everyone retreats to the main room, Lorna catches Clarice's eyes. She looks defiant, but above all worried, scared. Lorna can share the feeling.

She leans over John and hovers her hand above his back, concentrating on the bullets. She doesn't even realize that John isn't as unconscious as she thought until she pulls experimentally on the first bullet and he lets out a choking groan.

“John!” Clarice exclaims, as Lorna immediately releases the metal. She feels like throwing up even more.

John gasps for air, coughing.

“Can't you give him anything?” Lorna asks Caitlin.

“Already did, but it doesn't work well on him, and we don't have anything stronger,” she answers.

“'S okay,” John manages weakly, his coughs receding. “Just get it over with.”

“John, I'm sorry,” Lorna murmurs, shifting so he can see her.

John smiles. “You're back,” he says.

Somehow there is no anger in his gaze. Lorna closes her eyes and squeezes his unhurt shoulder as hard as she can, knowing that he won't feel it otherwise.

“I'm going to get those bullets out of you,” she says. “It's gonna hurt. I'm sorry.”

“I know,” John breathes out. “'S okay.”

Lorna nods and stands back up slowly.

“Wait, there's something else,” Caitlin says. “Right now the bullets themselves are slowing the bleeding, but once we remove them, he'll bleed out. Bandages won't be enough, and I can't stitch him up.”

Lorna looks at her sharply. “So what do we do?”

Caitlin shakes her head. “I don't−”

“Marcos,” John calls, his voice rough but clearer than before.

“Yes?” Marcos replies, crouching to let John see him. “What is it, John?”

“Sentinel...spider. Remember? Your power...” John trails off, his limited energy spent.

Marcos frowns for a second. “You want to… Are you sure?”

“No other...solution,” John murmurs.

“God,” Marcos closes his eyes, standing back up.

“What was that?” Clarice asks.

“Back when we escaped the Sentinel spiders the first time, one of them caught John's leg. I burned it down to get it off and, uh... We saw later that heating it up had stopped the bleeding.”

Lorna fight back nausea again at the simple thought, but Caitlin nods. “Cauterization? It's a little barbaric, but it could work.”

Marcos doesn't look anymore enthusiastic than Lorna feels. “Are you sure there's no other way?”

“I don't see one,” Caitlin answers. “He's already lost too much blood, and I can't give him a transfusion, or even fluids.”

“Okay,” Marcos relents. “For the records, though, I really don't like this.”

“I don't think any of us do,” Clarice murmurs.

She takes her place back at John's head and takes his hand in hers.

“No,” John mutters. “I'll hurt you. Gimme som'thing...to hold on to.”

Clarice looks up in confusion.

“He'll break your hand if he squeezes too hard,” Marcos tells her. She nods at him, with a grimace of understanding.

Lorna looks around her. There's very little furniture in the room, but she spots a promising piece of metal by the door. Raising a hand, she brings it over to them. It's a foot-long piece of metal pipe, that John can bend and crush to his liking. “Here,” she gently closes his hand around it.

“Thanks,” John murmurs.

“Ready?”

John just nods, bracing himself. Lorna tugs on the bullet, trying to dislodge it, and John's back arches is a silent scream.

What follows is nearly an hour of agony. Only Caitlin, Marcos, Clarice and Lorna are still in the room, the others trying to give them as much privacy as possible, but the activities beyond the closed door become more stilted with every noise from John. He holds on through the removal of three bullets before he loses his battle against screaming.

Marcos is ready with his power, burning a tendril of light into each wound Lorna clears, eliciting even more screams from John. John's back and the table beneath him, which Lorna has to reinforce with metal several times against his strength, are covered in blood.

His face is a mess of sweat and tears, his hands trembling even harder than before. Lorna doesn't know how he's still conscious. Clarice keeps stroking his face and wiping his brow, reminding him that she's here, but he's too exhausted to even keep his eyes open.

Despite his agony, John hasn't once asked them to stop, or voiced the need for a break. Somehow, he's holding on.

“This is the one that caused the damage to his spine,” Caitlin tells Lorna before she can start on the last bullet.

The pipe in John's hand in now unrecognizable. Lorna isn't sure she can take this any longer. None of them can.

Caitlin put a hand on her arm. “Lorna, I know it's hard, but this is important. We don't know the extent of the damage yet, but the way you remove that bullet could be the difference between him walking again and staying paralyzed.”

Lorna's head shoots up. “You think he might−” She doesn't even know what she's trying to ask. John being paralyzed for the rest of his life is unthinkable.

“I don't know,” Caitlin shakes her head.

“Okay,” Lorna says, taking a deep breath. “What do I need to do?”

“Just get it out slowly, and as straight as you can. We need some way to hold him down,” Caitlin adds with a grimace that says exactly what she thinks of that.

They haven't been able to keep John from arching his back every time Lorna pulled on the bullets, though Marcos tried. Even Lorna's powers aren't quite strong enough to tear through John's muscles, so she managed to get the bullets out without causing any more damage, but in this case even the slightest movement of the bullet could be disastrous. They don't know how John's mutation affects his spinal cord, but the fact that he can't feel his legs means it's vulnerable.

“Mark is the only one strong enough,” Lorna says, going to the door. “Hey, Mark!”

The bulky mutant comes over from the other side of the main room. It might be the middle of the night, but no one is sleeping. Not after the events of the day, not with John screaming like he has been.

“Yes?”

“Mark,” Caitlin says. “You've been invaluable today. Are you willing to help us one more time?”

Mark looks at Lorna, then down at John, and nods.

“We need you to hold him down,” Lorna says, though he's already figured it out.

“I can do that,” Mark says.

“Arms and shoulders,” Caitlin says. “He needs to be as still as possible. Don't−don't worry about his legs.”

She grimaces at the last part. Throughout the whole process, John's legs haven't so much as twitched.

Mark nods, and goes down on his knees in front of John, taking Clarice's place. “John?”

“Go ahead,” John murmurs, still not opening his eyes. He seems barely conscious, but he's somehow holding on.

Mark places his huge hands on John's shoulders, intertwining their arms until John can't move at all. “We're ready,” he says, turning to Lorna.

“Let's do this,” Lorna says.

She places her hands around the wound in John's lower back. The closer she gets, the more precise her ability becomes. She can feel the last bullet clearly, but it's not surrounded by soft tissues−even John's version of soft tissue, about as soft as stone. It seems embedded into the bone.

“Wait, there's something wrong,” she says, feeling something else.

“What is it?”

“I don't think the bullet is what's causing this. There's another piece of metal in there, it's even deeper.”

“What do you mean?” Caitlin frowns.

Lorna extends her reach through the rest of John's back, looking for what she's ignored until now out of habit. “John's had pieces of shrapnel in his back for as long as I've known him,” she says. “He got injured in Afghanistan. I think the bullet pushed one of the pieces into his spine.”

“Can you get it out?”

“I can try,” Lorna says.

She tugs on the bullet first, as softly as possible, trying to ignore John's moans of pain, until it finally dislodges and comes into her hand. Blood gushes out, but Caitlin is ready with gauze and bandages.

“I think the bone shifted when I took it out,” Lorna says.

Caitlin tries to stem the bleeding enough to have a look. “I can't see much, but I think his vertebra's broken. And if it shifted, it means it's unstable. That's not good news. He needs surgery.”

“Even if we had the best surgeon in the world, they still couldn't cut through his skin,” Marcos says.

“I'm hoping that once we've closed the wound, the density of his tissues will prevent the bone from moving anymore, but I can't guarantee it,” Caitlin says.

“Then we just do the best we can,” Marcos says.

“Can we cut the chatting and get on with it? John's not gonna hold on for very long,” Clarice pleads, still stroking John's face, tears streaming down her face.

“Okay,” Lorna murmurs. “I'll get it out.”

The tiny bit of metal is easier to get at, but Lorna feels her hands shake, and her powers with them. If it's touching John's spinal cord, she could do even more damage.

“Breathe,” Marcos murmurs in her ear. “You can do this.”

Lorna closes her eyes and concentrates on the metal, letting everything else fade away. It only when she feels the jagged piece of shrapnel hit her hand that she lets go.

Exhausted, Lorna stumbles back until someone catches her. She realizes it's Marcos, holding her tight like there's nothing wrong between them. She turns to look at him, and meets his sad, tired eyes.

He lets her go and leans over John. “One last effort,” he murmurs, his hands lighting up.

Lorna would find it beautiful, if it didn't elicit another weak, exhausted moan from John and worsen the horrible burned flesh smell now permeating the room.

“It's done,” she says once Marcos lets up, for everyone's benefit, turning back to John.

He's finally escaped into unconsciousness.

 

Caitlin takes advantage of John finally sleeping to clean his wounds thoroughly and bandage them, and Clarice portals him carefully into one of the warehouse's few actual beds, which they've set up in another of the small rooms by the garage.

The table looks like the site of a massacre. It's covered in blood, still dripping to the floor, and it's a mess of broken wood and metal reinforcements, where John has involuntarily grabbed onto the edges, Lorna's power the only thing that kept it standing. Caitlin does her best to clean up the floor, where's she's dropped bloody gauze and soiled bandages, but doesn't bother with the table. It's not salvageable.

She finds Marcos, Lorna, Sage and Reed sitting on boxes in the main room, Clarice leaning against the wall close to John's door, like she's listening for any sign of life. It's nearly four in the morning, and they're all beyond exhausted, but sleep would be too nice a respite. Caitlin finds herself wanting to keep busy, to escape the images assaulting her every time she closes her eyes.

She drags a box close to Reed and lets him put his arms around her. They both need the contact. Lauren and Andy have settled in sleeping bags in another corner of the room, asleep or at least quiet.

“What do we do now?” Sage asks, because she seems the only one of them still capable of starting a conversation.

They've never had a discussion about the Underground without John involved. Caitlin hasn't been there long enough to be sure, but she knows John has been their leader from the beginning. He and Lorna built this whole network from the ground up.

She decides now is not the time to start.

“In the morning, I'll assess the extent of John's spinal cord injury. I haven't been able to get a proper look because his wounds were more urgent. I'm not a specialist, I'm not sure how much I'll be able to tell you, but we can go from there.”

As they all look at her, stunned with fatigue and shock, she continues. “I think John should be here for any decision we make. It can wait until morning. We should go to sleep.”

“I'm not sure I can,” Clarice mutters.

“Today's events have been traumatizing for all of us,” Marcos says. “It will take us a while to unravel the consequences.” He looks at Lorna, with something undefinable in his eyes. “I'm sure we're all going to have a hard time sleeping for a while, but we need rest.”

“There's one room left with a bed,” Reed says. He's spent most of the night working with the local leaders to organize the warehouse. “I think you guys should take it,” he nods to Marcos and Lorna. “We'll stay with our children.”

Caitlin nods. She can't imagine falling asleep easily, but doing so away from her kids is inconceivable.

“I'll stay with John,” Clarice volunteers.

“Call me if anything changes,” Caitlin tells her.

“I will.”

Caitlin doesn't think any of them really sleeps, even though the warehouse is quiet until morning. She and Reed just hold on to each other, watching their children who are at least pretending to sleep, lying on the bare floor in old sleeping bags and their vests for pillows.

It's strange how quickly they've gotten used to sleeping in their day clothes and shoes, just in case they have to evacuate during the night. The conditions here are worse than in the bank, or even than Fairburn, and yet Caitlin doesn't feel uncomfortable, surrounded by mutants fighting for their lives every day. She would never have imagined that just a month ago.

The things happening to her children, though, the speed at which things are getting worse for mutants and for the Underground, terrify her. She watched her own son and daughter annihilate an entire building today, and they had to do this because they are being hunted for what they are.

The dream that the founders of the Underground have, of a world where humans and mutants can coexist peacefully, seems to be further away from them every day.

Caitlin lies there for a long time, contemplating what their life has become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here ends the worst of the angst, but not this AU. John has a long road ahead of him, but the next chapters will be...quieter. A little.
> 
> This AU is totally getting out of hand, by the way. I'm on chapter 11 and still on day 4, and I've got a sequel planned out and even a few missing scenes one-shots. Anyway. We'll see how it goes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's another chapter! Up until now, this story has been pure John whump. From here on we're diverging in a major way from the show, and I'm going back to my main genre of disability rep, so it's going to be more character development than action. Hurt/comfort, but realistic−John is not going to recover overnight.
> 
> Now that you're warned, enjoy!

John wakes up slowly, confused and agitated. He's lying on his side, on what feels like an actual bed. His back is still pulsing with pain, nearly enough to make him gag as soon as it hits his consciousness, and his breathing picks up in response. He opens his eyes wide, panicking.

Clarice is in his field of vision, nodding off in an uncomfortable-looking chair.

“Hey,” John murmurs, weaker than he intends, once he's gotten his panic under control. The pain recedes a little when his chest settles into shallower breathing.

Not moving seems like a good idea at the moment.

Clarice opens her eyes immediately, confirming his suspicion that she wasn't deeply asleep.

“You're awake,” she gives him an exhausted smile.

She unwinds from the chair to take his hand in hers, gently. John is careful not to squeeze, unwilling to hurt her with a wrong move. He suspects he won't have much control over his body for a while.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like−” John starts, and pauses to ride out a wave of fresh pain. “Well, getting run over by a truck wouldn't actually damage me much, so I guess that image is out?”

Clarice gives him a small laugh.

“I suppose,” she says.

“Is everyone safe?” John asks.

“Yes, they're fine. How much do you remember?”

John takes the time to think. Most of yesterday, after getting shot, is hazy at best, but he can piece it together from the little he remembers. Lorna bringing down the plane, then waking up to find−

John's breath hitches, and he tries to look down at his legs without moving. He's pretty sure he still can't move them. It doesn't feel like the disturbing gap in his perception of his body is still there, but that might be that he's already getting used to it. He can't tell if there's any feeling there, not through the pain, not when he can't properly feel his body at the best of times.

“John, what is it?” Clarice asks, worried, picking up on his agitation.

John looks at her again and tries to calm his breathing. “Nothing, I, uh… My legs−”

“Can you−”

“I don't know. Can't tell.”

Clarice squeezes his hand hard. “I'll go find Caitlin, alright? She'll know more. You okay for a minute here?”

“Yeah,” John breathes. He tries to sort his memories of last night, figure out what happened. The infinitely long car ride, every bump in the road agony to his battered body, getting here… Where's here? He remembers Clarice telling him that Headquarters was gone, and this doesn't sound like the bank. Concentrating, he can hear people behind the door Clarice just left through, a lot of people, mostly asleep. He remembers Caitlin's panic when she couldn't remove the bullets from his back, Lorna… Lorna was there, wasn't she? She must have been, because he's pretty sure he doesn't have bullets in his body anymore.

The pain. He remembers the pain of the bullets coming out, of Marcos burning his wounds to stop the bleeding. He didn't want the others to hear him scream, but he gave in to the pain when it became too much.

“John?” Caitlin calls, and he must have zoned out, because he didn't hear her come in. Clarice is behind her, as well as Marcos and Lorna. John want to move, to sit up at least, but he winces as the barest movement of his head sends a wave of pain through his body.

“Don't try to move,” Caitlin says. “Your back is in a pretty bad state.”

“How bad?” John asks, blinking through the pain. He feels self-conscious and nervous, lying exposed like this and unable to move. There's a blanket draped over his legs, but his upper body is bare beyond the bandages. He doesn't feel cold, but he's hyper aware that his friends saw and heard him scream in agony last night.

He hates showing any weakness.

“Four bullet wounds and a lot bruises,” Caitlin answers. “Most of it should be fine as long as the wounds don't get infected. I don't understand your mutation well enough to know how your body heals.”

“Quite fast, but otherwise mostly like anyone else,” John says. “It's just harder to hurt me.” He hesitates, honestly afraid to ask. “My legs?”

Caitlin bites her lip. “One of the bullets was embedded in your spine, and it looks like it dislodged some shrapnel that damaged your spinal cord.”

“Does that mean−”

“I don't know, John,” Caitlin says, shaking her head. “I have no way to see the damage, and I'm not a specialist. I can assess your mobility now, maybe get Sage to look some things up for me, but that's about it. We can't take you to a hospital.”

“I know,” John nods around the knot of fear in his throat. “It's okay.”

Caitlin gives him a compassionate look and comes closer, her hands disappearing out of his currently limited field of vision.

“Can you feel that?”

John tries to concentrate, get past the pain.

“Try like this,” Marcos says, stepping around Caitlin, and this time John definitely feels something.

“What did you just do?” he asks.

“He punched you,” Caitlin says disapprovingly. “Did you feel it?”

“Yeah,” John says. “Do it again? Just to be sure.”

Marcos obliges.

“Yeah, I definitely feel something,” John says with a relieved smile. It's mirrored by everyone around the room.

“That's good news,” Caitlin says. “What's up with the punching?”

Feeling his energy seep away with the effort to stay awake and concentrated, John lets Marcos answer.

“I found out a long time ago that John's skin is so solid he doesn't really feel much through it. Punching him hurts, though,” he adds, massaging his hand.

“Um,” Caitlin mutters. She looks back at John, who is struggling to keep his eyes open. “John, don't fall asleep just yet. We'll let you rest in a minute, but I need to know if you can move your legs at all. Can you move your feet for me?”

John blinks sluggishly and concentrates on his feet, but going by the looks the others are giving him, they're not moving. Caitlin shakes her head sadly. John closes his eyes in dismay.

“It's okay, John,” Caitlin says, taking his hand. “It's really good that you can feel them, it means the injury isn't complete. The rest will...take time.”

John doesn't ask how much time. He's not sure Caitlin can answer that, and even less that the answer is one he wants to hear. And he's too tired and hurting to care right now.

“Just sleep, okay?” Caitlin says, letting Clarice takes her place beside him again. “I'll be back later to change your bandages.”

John nods weakly and closes his eyes, leaning into Clarice's hand as she pushes his hair out of his face. He's asleep in seconds.

 

“What does this mean?” Marcos asks as soon as they're out of the room.

Clarice slips through the door just before Caitlin can close it. “He's asleep,” she says.

Caitlin nods at her. “Good. As I told him, I'm no specialist. I wish we could take him to a neurosurgeon. I don't know if what we're doing is going to help or just make it worse.”

“We don't have a choice, Caitlin,” Lorna says. “Taking him to a hospital now would just get him arrested. And all of us with him.”

“I know. Doesn't mean I like it.”

Caitlin gestures for them to move away from the door. “I've worked with spinal cord injury patients before. With proper treatment and physical therapy, those with incomplete injuries at this level often get back most of the function in their legs with time. In John's case...I don't know. We don't have the equipment to help him, and I don't know how his mutation might interfere with the process.”

“How much time are we talking about?” Marcos asks.

Caitlin shakes her head. “He could be on his feet in a few months...or he could stay like this, or anything in between. I just don't know. And that's if he's given time to heal. With the way things are going...”

The elation they all felt at John confirming he could feel his legs is gone. They look at each other with grim faces.

“We'll figure it out,” Marcos says.

Lorna bites her lip, not as sure as he is. She and John have been friends for a long time, and she has never seen him like this. But moping around isn't going to solve anything. “What equipment does he need?” she asks.

Caitlin looks at her and thinks for a moment. “A wheelchair, at least. Probably other things down the road. But for now, since we can't consider surgery to repair his vertebrae, we need to stabilize his spine somehow.” She opens her eyes wider, with an idea. “I think you could help with that, actually.”

“How?”

“Well, we need some kind of brace, preferably sturdier than the plastic ones. So...how well can you shape metal?”

“I can't exactly shape it, not like you're thinking,” Lorna says. Nothing like her father did. “But I can bend it, and Marcos is a good metal worker. Between us, maybe we can come up with something.”

“Good,” Caitlin says. She spends the next few minutes explaining exactly what she needs.

“Okay,” Lorna says. “I'll go scour for some scrap pieces. This place used to be a garage, apparently, so there's plenty of metal lying around.”

What they come up with is a two-piece brace made of steel plates, reinforced with pieces of rebar Marcos melds together. It's ugly, but strong enough to withstand a bear attack. It's held together by metal clasps to ensure that it will pop open rather than deform if John unconsciously tries to force it.

“I'm pretty sure he could still bend it,” Lorna says.

“With his injuries, he's going to be pretty weak for a while,” Caitlin frowns, standing. “Okay, I'm going to go change his bandages now, and explain this to him.”

Clarice and Lorna make to follow her, but she stops them. “I don't think we should have an audience for this,” she says.

“But−” Clarice starts.

“Listen, this is going to be painful for him as it is, and I need to assess his...other functions without him getting overly embarrassed. I don't think he'll want you there.”

“Oh,” Clarice says.

“You'll need me to get the brace on him,” Lorna says.

“I'll call you when we're ready,” Caitlin answers.

As Caitlin closes the door behind her, the three of them find themselves lost, staring listlessly in the direction of John's room as they try to take it all in.

Lorna is the first to let herself slide down to the floor, her back against the wall. They still don't have any furniture, and the crates they sat on last night are still in the middle of the busy room. She doesn't feel like moving that far.

Marcos and then Clarice follow suite, sitting cross-legged on the floor. They both seem close to tears, from worry or from exhaustion, or both. Lorna doesn't feel any better. She doubts any of them slept last night.

“It's going to be okay,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

Clarice stops staring at the wall to give her an incredulous look.

“You don't believe that any more than I do,” she says.

Lorna shrugs. If she's honest, she doesn't believe it at all, but she just needs something to reassure herself right now. Her hands are shaking again, she notices.

Before she can stop it, she finds herself whimpering quietly, rocking, tears streaming down her face.

“Lorna?” Marcos asks, putting an arm around her.

“It's all my fault,” Lorna sobs out. She hasn't said it aloud yet. She hasn't really said it in her head, even. It makes it too real.

“No it's not,” Marcos murmurs, but he doesn't sound convinced. It's just empty reassurance. Even he knows it's the truth.

“I left him injured, with _bullets_ inside him, when I could have helped. And then I went and−” she chokes on her words. “The plane going down. That's what caused this, right? He could still walk before.”

Marcos nods reluctantly.

“It's all my fault,” Lorna repeats.

“You couldn't have known,” Marcos says.

“No, but that doesn't change anything, does it?”

Strangely, Clarice, who was so ready to blame her yesterday, now looks at her with a shine in her eyes, something like recognition.

“When I found out my foster family was killed because of me,” she says slowly, “John said it wasn't my fault, that Sentinel Services pulled the trigger. This is the same. Maybe you made mistakes, maybe you made it worse, but you didn't hurt him. Those security guards did.”

“You really believe that?” Lorna asks.

Clarice sighs. “I still think what you did was wrong, but...the only reason he took so many bullets is because he was shielding me. If we're assigning blame based on what we could have done, then it's my fault as much as yours.”

“It's not on either of you,” Marcos says shakily.

“Okay,” Lorna murmurs. “It just feels like so much−”

But she doesn't feel as alone anymore. Maybe together they can make it through this. If John gets better. The alternative barely bears thinking about.

They stay together like this for a while more, three adults huddling together on the cold concrete floor, silent and lost in their thoughts.

When Caitlin calls them into the room, she has John sitting up in the bed leaning against her, though he's clearly in pain and barely conscious. She strains under his weight as he fails to hold himself up, and Clarice rushes to John's other side and pulls his arm over her shoulders.

Caitlin nods at her in thanks, covering John's torso in thick bandages as padding for the brace.

“Bring it over,” she asks Lorna.

Lorna uses her power to fly the crude brace over, hovering the plates around John.

“I'm ready,” she says.

“Marcos, could you make holes in the back part so I can get access to his wounds without taking it off?”

“Yeah,” Marcos says, getting to work. It only takes few minutes, but Caitlin and Clarice are bending under John's growing weight. John himself is fading fast, low moans escaping his lips every now and then.

As soon as Marcos is done cutting and cooling the metal, Lorna brings the two pieces together and bends them into the right shape on John's body. John lets out a louder moan at his back being forcefully straightened up, or perhaps at his wounds being jostled, then collapses as he loses consciousness again. Caitlin gently lies him back on the pillows and fastens the straps of the brace.

Lorna wants to cry at the sight. John is still in the bed, his face pale and clammy, and what should look like an armor on him somehow makes him seem even more vulnerable. With the brace and a strategic use of pillows, he can lie on his back again without aggravating his injuries, but he's never looked so tired and pained.

She hugs Marcos tightly, and that almost feels like before. Nothing else does. Everything has changed, and Lorna has never been this scared.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note: over the course of this story, since it deals with people new to disability and all it implies, characters will exhibit ableist behaviour, including internalized ableism. It is not always stated as such in the story at the time (though deconstruction of ableism will be part of their journey) but that doesn't mean it's my way of thinking, just that it's where the characters are at that point.
> 
> That being said, enjoy! (and, as a reminder, I love comments very much. I answer every one. I also have a tumblr with The Gifted and fanfic content [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theemmaarthur))

Sage has managed to take over the one laptop in Nashville station and to hack into a secure network by the time they all assemble in the main room. Despite Caitlin's hopes from last night, John is clearly in no state to lead them, and they need to make urgent decisions.

“I've swept the Sentinel Services servers,” Sage says. “It looks like they think we all died when Headquarters came down. There is no description of the mutants who attacked the Summit or who crashed the plane. I suspect this might be the work of the Frosts and their connections, but in any case it gives us a welcome respite. They're not looking for us anymore.”

“Good,” Marcos says, looking sideways at Lorna. She returns his look with feeling, which tells Clarice that they haven't talked about yesterday yet.

The Struckers, minus Andy who seems to have decided he's not interested in this meeting, let out a collective breath of relief. Of course, this has been their first foray into living on the run. Clarice has been running for as long as she remembers, but she can imagine how terrifying it must be to be thrown from a regular life into the madness that has been their last month.

“They're still raiding stations,” she says. “Even if the Hound program isn't picked up by some other mad scientist, they still have plenty of weapons and manpower to send against us.”

“Yes, but as long as we manage to stay under the radar, we won't be targeted directly,” Sage answers. “The mutant registry is definitely going to pass though, and I wouldn't be surprised if they tighten the anti-mutant laws even further, so we'll have a new influx of refugees. The plane crash is all over the news, and they're calling it the worst terrorist attack since 7/15.”

Marcos sighs. “But you say they're not tying it back to us?”

“No. They're saying it's mutants, but nothing more.”

“The Frosts are part of an organization called the Inner Circle,” Lorna speaks for the first time. She avoids looking at any of them. “They wanted me to be a part of it. They have powerful political allies, money… They wouldn't have trouble keeping this quiet.”

“But they didn't attack the summit, or even crash the plane!” Marcos exclaims. “Why would they cover for something they didn't do?”

“They didn't need to do it,” Lorna mutters, looking at the floor. “They had very persuasive arguments. And telepaths.”

Marcos raises his hands, his expression a mix of anger and worry, but Clarice stops him before he can start arguing.

“I don't think this is the time or the place for this,” she says, waving toward the groups of mutants scattered around the room.

Marcos deflates, but nods, tearing his eyes off Lorna who still won't look at him.

“What about John?” Clarice asks. “What are we going to do?”

“I've talked to the people here,” Reed says. “This station is fairly new and they don't really have leaders, so it's not very organized.”

“Yes, John and I set this up originally as our backup safe house and rally point,” Marcos says. “It's only become a full station in the past three months, and they've been relying on us and St Louis for supplies.”

Reed nods at him. “The point is, we can stay here for a while and make this our base, if we start relocating the others quickly. We'll have to establish supply routes and backup locations, but I think we could make this place into a better refuge. There are more abandoned buildings outside that haven't been repurposed yet.”

“And it would give John some time to heal,” Clarice nods. They can't do this without him. She can't imagine keeping up this fight without John to lead them, and the look on the others' faces tells her they're thinking the same.

“We urgently need supplies, though,” Sage says. “Food, blankets, medical equipment. The Augusta station was raided this morning, they're on their way here.”

“Are they okay?” Lauren asks fearfully. “Wes was there.”

“Yes, everyone got out. After they heard what happened in Atlanta, they were ready to evacuate, so they left before the police even arrived. But it means we'll have nineteen more refugees by tonight.”

“The guys in St Louis can get us a few things, but I doubt it will be enough,” Reed says. “But we'll have a little more freedom to move now. I'll head up there this afternoon, see what I can bring back.”

“Good,” Marcos says. “I'll start clearing up the other buildings. Shatter, Lorna, you okay to help?”

“If Caitlin doesn't need me,” Lorna answers, her posture only a little tense.

“No, we should be fine,” Caitlin says. “John will likely sleep through the day.”

Marcos and Sage spend the next few minutes giving out various missions to the adult mutants in the room, trying to get everyone occupied. Clarice notices that they don't ask her anything.

“Clarice, can I talk to you for a minute?” Marcos asks finally, signaling for Sage and Caitlin to come closer as well.

“What is it?”

“Whatever supplies Reed manages to bring back, it won't be enough,” Marcos says. “We're going to have to resort to stealing. You've done this before, haven't you?”

Clarice tenses. “I'm not a pro,” she says. “And I can't pass for human, remember. If my portals or my face are caught on camera, they'll know we survived, and we're all toast.”

Marcos sighs. “You're right. But we still need to find a way.”

“Wait,” Lauren says from where she's standing, just close enough to hear. None of them have noticed her listening, and they all turn to her. “You said Wes was coming here, right? He can do this. He's got the perfect power, and he's got the experience.”

Seeing Marcos start to nod, Caitlin reacts. “So we're going to send children to steal food for us now?”

“Mom, you still don't understand?” Lauren explodes. “We're not kids anymore. This is our life now. You can keep hiding and running, but I'm going to fight.”

Caitlin recoils, sputtering, but she doesn't find the words to answer before Marcos starts speaking.

“Wes is of age, in any case. We'll ask him when he gets here. We can send a small team out tomorrow to get food and medical supplies. Caitlin, didn't you say you'd need things for John?”

“If Wes can cover my portals, I can get you into a pharmacy or something,” Clarice says.

“Fine,” Caitlin relents. “Pharmacies won't have what I need though. A clinic would be better, maybe at night after it closes. Hospitals are out, there's too many people there even in the middle of the night.”

“In the meantime, I think I can find a few dollars for furniture,” Marcos says. “I'll get some people who can pass to go scour garage sales, see if we can get some beds and tables.”

“I want to go,” Lauren says. “It'll give me something to do.”

“Okay. You can ask your brother too, it might do him good to get some air.”

Caitlin looks offended at Marcos's blatant disregard for her parental authority, but Clarice stops her from pointing it out by putting a hand on her arm. Lauren and Andy clearly need to be treated like adults, and they certainly deserve it, after saving everyone. And Caitlin's reluctance to let her children get involved is starting to annoy everybody, however much they understand her need to protect them. She can't protect them from being mutants, and what that means for them.

“I'll stay with John,” Clarice says, “but call if you need me.”

She makes for John's room, whose door is ajar. Caitlin follows her, and Clarice almost blows her off, thinking she wants to take her to task for what just happened, but she raises her hands in an offer of peace.

“I just want to talk to you about John.”

Clarice nods, waiting.

“He's going to be very weak for the next few days, with all the blood he's lost. I'll try to see if I can get an IV into his arm once we have fluids, but I doubt it. In the meantime, we need to get him to drink as much as possible and to stay still, okay?”

“Yeah, I got that,” Clarice says impatiently.

“Listen, I don't know the exact nature of your relationship, but I can see how close you've gotten. Whatever ends up happening with his legs, he's going to need a lot of support. Can you give him that?”

Clarice sighs and bites her lip. “I hope so. I want to, but I...we haven't been...”

“You care about him,” Caitlin states. It's not a question, but Clarice nods anyway. “This is going to be hard, on both of you. On all of us, probably, but on John the most. He needs you.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Clarice says. “I just don't know if I can be what he needs.”

“You're doing well so far,” Caitlin says.

“I haven't done anything.”

“You held it together and got him here, and you've barely left his side since. I'd say that's more than nothing. But you also need to take care of yourself, Clarice. You won't be any good to him if you don't sleep.”

“I don't−” Clarice starts, but she chokes on her words. She clears her throat and tries again. “I don't think I can sleep. Not after everything−”

“Would you be more comfortable if you could be with John?” Caitlin asks.

“Maybe. I don't want him to wake up alone.”

“Then how about this: you go wash up now while I check on him, and we find you a sleeping bag so you can lie down in his room. Does that sound good?”

“I guess,” Clarice says, without enthusiasm but with a renewed determination. Whatever her doubts, she won't let John go through this alone.

 

Clarice manages to nod off for a while, snuggled against the frame of John's bed, one hand holding his. She sits up in alarm at every move he makes, but he never wakes beyond a few mutters. She can see the lines of pain on his face even in his sleep.

She hasn't really had time to think about what his paralysis will mean down the road. Last night, she kept vigil over him, but even trying to parse the recent events was too hard in her exhausted and terrified state. There are so many things to figure out, so many changes, that her mind can't seem to settle on one thought, going between scenarios until she finds herself hyperventilating.

She wakes from yet another dream featuring John covered in blood to find him with his eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“John?” she asks, squeezing his hand.

“Hey,” John says, turning his head to look at her. His voice is still weak and rough, but he looks more awake than earlier. “I didn't want to wake you.”

“You didn't,” Clarice says. “I was just...I didn't really sleep last night, so−”

“What time is it?”

“I'm not sure. Late afternoon, probably. How long have you been awake?”

The light coming from the window is Clarice's only clue, since neither of them has a watch or a phone. She's confused from sleeping in the middle of the day.

“Maybe half an hour,” John says.

Clarice sits down carefully on the edge of John's bed. Before she can stop him, he tries to shift to make her some room and buries his head in his pillow when pain erupts in his back. Clarice winces along, helpless. She wants to hold him, but he lets go of her hand to make a fist around the sheets. He's still afraid of hurting her.

“How are you feeling?” she asks quietly when the wave of pain seems to have mostly passed.

“Been better,” John says breathlessly. “But this helps, I think,” he adds, gesturing toward the brace. “It's not very aesthetically pleasing though, is it?”

“No,” Clarice laughs. “But if it does the job−”

“I suppose. I could do with some clothes, though. It's not that I'm cold, but−”

“Yeah, this isn't really how I imagined I'd get you naked,” Clarice jokes along. Then she winces when she realizes what she's said. They haven't had any time to talk about the one kiss they shared, and now everything's changed. “More seriously, I think you should wait for Caitlin before trying to move.”

John nods. “You wanted to get me naked, uh?” he asks lightly, but he has the same shadows in his eyes, the same hesitation.

“I've been imagining that for a while, yeah,” Clarice smiles, but she doesn't elaborate. She's pretty sure that particular fantasy of hers dates back to before Sonya gave her the memory, but she doesn't want to bring her up. John has enough on his plate without her talking about his dead ex.

“I'd say we could make it happen soon, but−” John gestures down as his legs. “I don't know what's going to happen.”

“We'll take the time you need,” Clarice says.

“It could be months, Clarice. It could be never.”

Clarice raises her hands to stop him. “First, even if you don't get better, it won't prevent us from being together. And I'm willing to wait. However long it takes for you to feel comfortable.”

“So you really want to stay?”

“What, you thought I'd bail on you?”

John shakes his head. “I don't know. The network's in shambles, the station is gone, I'm… I don't know what we're going to do. You'd be well within your rights to leave.”

“This isn't about my rights, John. We're in this together now. I'm not gonna run away.”

“It wouldn't be running away.”

“Well, I'm here to stay,” Clarice says firmly, almost angry that he's insisting so much. Hasn't she proved that she's part of this fight? Or is it about her not telling him about her stint with the Brotherhood again?

“Good,” John says simply, but his voice is off.

Really looking, Clarice realizes that his eyes are shining, and he's avoiding her gaze. Shocked, she takes his hand again.

“John, you really thought I would just leave?”

John clears his throat and shrugs. “I don't know, I just...I thought maybe you wouldn't want to stay. After what happened.”

“You mean us kissing? Or you getting hurt?”

“That kiss was really good,” John says dejectedly.

“That's what you were thinking about when I woke up, wasn't it? That I'd leave you because you got injured.”

John sighs, still looking away. “I can't move my legs, Clarice. I can't walk. And I might stay that way for the rest of my life.”

Clarice gently cups his face with her hand to get him to look at her. “John, if our situations were reversed, if I was the one that got hurt, what would you do?”

John's eyes widen, briefly making eye contact with her.

“Point taken,” he says with a small nod. “Still, I wouldn't hold it against you if you didn't want to...explore whatever this is between us, for now.”

“You can be really thick when you want to, you know that?” Clarice shoots back.

Carefully, she leans over to kiss him. It stays chaster than their first kiss, because she doesn't want to risk hurting John, but they both smile when she lets up.

“I want this,” she says.

“You know I come with a lot of baggage, right? There's Sonya, and Pulse−” John sobers up. “And now this...”

“You think I don't have baggage? Don't worry, I have enough tragic heartbreaks and bad stories to go around. But it doesn't matter. As long as you want it too.”

“I do,” John nods. “I don't know how good a boyfriend I'm going to make for the next while, though.”

“Dammit, John, stop arguing!” Clarice exclaims. “You're injured. You need to rest. I don't expect anything more from you. I like the sound of 'boyfriend', though,” she adds after a pause.

“Me too.”

Clarice leans in to kiss him again, but it only last a very short time before John lets go of her and pushes back into his pillows, gritting his teeth.

“John?”

“'S okay,” John mutters. “Just cramps.”

“Do I need to get Caitlin?”

“No. It's over now.” He relaxes a little, his eyelids dropping of their own accord.

“You should sleep,” Clarice says. “You need it.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Similar warnings as for last chapter: John is pretty depressed, and exhibits plenty of internalized ableism. That doesn't mean it reflects my thoughts on the matter.
> 
> As usual, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and don't hesitate to tell me your thoughts!

John is staring into space, lost in his thoughts, when Clarice knocks lightly on the door. She slept in his room again, on a mattress beside his bed, and it was comforting to see her sleeping shape when pain or nightmares awoke him. She stepped out half an hour ago, when John was still trying to escape the grips of the drowsiness he's felt since his injury.

“Come in,” he calls, tugging on his sheets to make sure he's properly covered. Caitlin helped him put on a shirt last night, but they didn't bother trying to get his uncooperative legs into pants.

“You want some breakfast?”

“Sure,” John nods.

He hasn't been able to eat much, or keep his food down so far, but he knows he needs to eat despite the nausea. His body−even the half that he can still move−is incredibly weak from trauma and bloodloss, and he can't afford to add undernourishment to that.

“We don't have much, but I've got you some bread and jam,” Clarice says, coming to sit beside him.

“Thanks,” John says.

Clarice helps him raise his head a bit, placing another pillow under his shoulders. The minute movement of his back sends John reeling through a fresh wave of pain, but he bites his tongue and tries to ride it out silently.

“We went shopping last night,” Clarice says, putting the plate she brought on the edge of the bed and handing him a piece of bread. Eating lying down is awkward at best, but right now it's better than trying to sit up.

“By shopping, you mean−”

“Yes. Wes−you know Lauren's boyfriend? He arrived last night.”

“The kid who makes mirages?”

Clarice nods. “He helped us. His power is pretty dope.”

“Not as much as yours,” John smiles.

“Flatterer,” Clarice shots back. “Anyway, we managed to get some medical supplies.”

“Good,” John says.

He hates that they have to resort to stealing, but the truth is that there is no other option right now. While he managed to keep them afloat for years in Atlanta, with the help of the Network, the influx of refugees and the loss of their Headquarters means they have no choice.

“Caitlin found you a wheelchair,” Clarice says hesitantly, biting her lip. She looks at John as if afraid of his reaction.

John takes a breath. He has no idea how to react, it turns out. The reality of his situation has yet to fully sink in, his head too fuzzy with pain and exhaustion to think properly.

Objectively, it's good to know that he'll be able to move in case of emergency. They're still in hiding, and there is no way to know when they might have to evacuate.

But using a wheelchair… It's one thing to know that he can't currently move his legs, while he's still in too much pain and too tired to do more than lie in bed anyway. It's another to contemplate a life of this. Or even just months of this, if he does mange to get back on his feet. The wheelchair might be his way to independence, but right now it just feels like another blow, like failure.

He realizes he's spaced out when Clarice adds, “Caitlin doesn't want you out of bed for at least a week anyway. You don't need to worry about this yet.”

John just nods, unable to formulate his thoughts. He puts down his untouched plate, now completely put off food.

“John, you need to eat,” Clarice murmurs sadly.

“Maybe later. I'm not hungry.”

Turning his head away from her, he closes his eyes, signifying the end of the conversation. Clarice stands up with a sigh.

“John,” she says after watching him for a while, hesitantly. “I know this is hard, but please don't pull away from me. I told you I'm here to stay, and I'll support you in any way you need, but please talk to me.”

John is torn between apologizing and snapping at her that she doesn't know anything, so he opts for silence. It's the best he can give right now. Clarice stands there for a minute, then gives up and leaves.

John stays awake for a long time, longer than he's been conscious since the car trip, trying and failing to ignore the spasms in his back and legs. Now that feeling has returned in his legs, the pain is constant and excruciating. Caitlin told him that it might never completely go away, whatever level of function he ends up with, and John wonders for a moment if he can live a life of this.

He tries to get his mind away from these thoughts, but there's very little positivity he can fall back upon. Even putting aside his injuries, the future of the Underground, of his friends, is bleak. No one has told him about the events he's missed in the past two days−Caitlin barely skimmed over what happened to Headquarters, and he was too out of it to ask for more−but he doesn't see a way out of their situation. With the latest hits, they won't be able to step foot in Atlanta again, and the rest of the Underground is likely to unravel, staggering under the weight of too many refugees and too little means.

_Do you ever think of walking away?_ Clarice's words from a month ago−has it only been a month?−echo in his mind, unbidden. The truth is that he  never could . He's been in the center of this ever since Evangeline came to him in Tucson, and it's become his responsibility. His decisions.

His decisions that led to Pulse's death, to Sonya's death, to countless mutants shot dead in the streets or arrested never to be seen again. His decisions that led them here, stuck in a dead end, the Sentinel Services' net closing in on them inexorably.

Walking away has never been an option. And now that John might never walk again, he's become no better than a dead weight in their fight. But whatever happens, he's going to do his goddamn best to get as many of them through this as possible.

Even if it means making them leave him behind.

 

He must have dozed off eventually, beaten by the exhaustion deep in his bones, because he wakes up a while later to a knock on the door.

“John? It's Caitlin.”

“Come in,” he says.

“I need to change your bandages,” Caitlin says, walking in and closing the door carefully behind her. “How are you feeling? Any change?”

“If you mean, can I move my legs, then no,” John sighs. “But I feel a bit more awake than yesterday.”

“That's good, it means you're recovering from the bloodloss. Your legs will take more time.”

“So you tell me.”

Caitlin gives him a sharp look and puts aside the bag of supplies she's holding, sitting down in the chair to be closer to his level.

“Look, I'm not going to coddle you. What you're going through is hard, and daunting. But right now you really need to focus on the immediate, on recovering from your injuries. The rest will come, but not if you don't rest and eat properly. Driving yourself into despair is not going to help you.”

“I know,” John murmurs.

“Good. Let's get you on your side so I can look at your wounds.”

The process of changing his bandages and cleaning the bullet wounds is excruciating. Though Caitlin does it though the holes in the metal brace rather than removing it, just the position brings John close to screaming in pain. The upside is that he can't feel the actual wounds much, at least until Caitlin touches the one in his spine and he lets out a strangled cry.

Caitlin, in a perfect professional caring manner, keeps up a constant stream of words, describing what's she's doing in detail. “The wounds are healing faster than anything I've ever seen,” she says while taping gauze back on the last one, the one near John's right shoulder that pulls every time he moves his arm.

“My body heals pretty fast,” John says through gritted teeth.

Caitlin helps him lie back down on his back, replacing the pillows under him so his wounds aren't directly pressing on the bed. “You said so, yes. I don't know what that means for your spine, but it could be good news,” she says. “God, I wish there was more research done on mutant medicine. I mean, we've made incredible stride in genetic research thanks to mutants, but nobody seems to care as much about getting you proper medical care.”

“That's what we get for not being human, I suppose,” John says, his eyes still closed, trying to even out his breathing.

“But you _are_ human,” Caitlin frowns.

John throws her a look. “How many non-mutants do you know who truly believe that? Not just that we're human, but that we deserve to be treated equally?”

Caitlin doesn't answer, biting her lip. John sighs and changes the subject.

“I hear you went out last night.”

“Yes. I'm not thrilled that we had to steal, but we should have enough medical supplies for everyone for a while, including insulin for Liz.”

“That's good. Really good, actually. Medical supplies have always been the hardest to get.”

“I got some things for you, too.”

“Clarice told me that, yes,” John says quietly, looking away.

“About the wheelchair? It bothers you,” Caitlin states, her gaze questioning.

John shrugs as much as his wounds will allow. “On some level, yes. It bothers me that I need it. But it is necessary, and I do appreciate that you went to get one.”

“We also have more bandages and antiseptic. And I grabbed a catheter. It will make things easier for a while.”

“Thank you, I suppose,” John sighs, not looking at her.

It was beyond embarrassing to discover that he doesn't have control of _anything_ below his waist. Caitlin assured him that it's likely to come back eventually, but the prospect of living like this is scary as hell.

Caitlin thankfully doesn't comment any further. She's good at keeping things professional, even though they're in the least professional settings possible.

“I managed to get strong oral painkillers as well,” she says instead, taking a pill bottle out of her pocket.

“No,” John says. More sharply than he means to, but somehow the simple sound of the tablets rattling inside the bottle unsettles him.

“Why? I know you said over-the-counter painkillers don't work on you, but opioids should,” Caitlin frowns.

“I'm not taking them,” John says, not looking at her.

His vague hope that Caitlin will just let it go is crushed quickly.

“You body needs the relief to heal, John. I get that you don't like to show weakness, but I don't think anyone is going to judge you for taking painkillers.”

“It's not about that,” John resigns himself to having to explain. “I used to take a lot of pills. Took me years to beat the addiction, so I'm not going back to that.”

He's impressed as how fast Caitlin makes the pill bottle disappear.

“Sorry. I didn't know.”

John shakes his head. “You couldn't have known. Though I'm not the only one here who hasn't had a white-picket-fence kind of life, so you should probably be careful with things like that. Life was hard for mutants long before 7/15.”

“I'll try to do that,” Caitlin nods.

She helps John get his arms in a new shirt. Sitting up, even just enough to get it underneath him, nearly defeats him. His legs and lower back start spasming violently, leaving John breathless and coughing, his eyes shut tightly in an effort to ride out the pain. He reject Caitlin's helping hand when it slips in his, afraid to hurt her, and she grabs his forearm tightly instead.

It takes him several minutes to regain control of his breathing. He open his eyes to see Caitlin's worried face over him.

“There's got to be something we can do for the pain,” she says. “It's taking too much energy out of you, energy your body needs to heal.”

“I don't see what,” John says tiredly. He does feel exhausted again.

“Are you sure you don't want to try painkillers? I understand it was hard to wean yourself off, but if we do it in a controlled manner−”

“I'm not going through that withdrawal again. Not for anything.”

“You may not have to. We can keep the doses low, figure it out.”

“No,” John says. “That's how I got addicted. I needed larger doses because of my metabolism, and then my body developed tolerance too fast. I was taking twice the lethal dose daily by the time I stopped.”

“Oh. What about other meds?” Caitlin asks. “Muscle relaxants, benzodiazepines...they could help at least a little.”

“We can't afford to go robbing hospitals every other day,” John says. “Anyway, muscle relaxants don't work on me. And I can't take benzos either.”

“Same reason?”

John nods. Caitlin looks at him for a moment, then widens her eyes as if understanding something.

“Can I ask−you don't have to answer if it's too personal, but does this have to do with the shrapnel in your back?”

“Some of it,” John says. He pauses, trying to decide how much to share. This is something only Lorna knows about, and he's not sure how comfortable he is with other people finding out. But on the road looming ahead of him, these questions are bound to come up again. Maybe it's better if his friends know.

“Not long before 7/15, I got hurt in Afghanistan,” he says slowly. “I found an IED, and I didn't have time to get out of the building. I should have died, but I just got a broken arm and a couple pounds of shrapnel embedded in my back. The surgeon couldn't take it all out because of my mutation.”

“That's why you were taking painkillers?”

“Yes. Some pieces were pressing into nerves, so it was pretty bad for a while. Surgeon told me if that piece in my spine ever shifted even a fraction of an inch, I'd end up paralyzed. Guess he was right.”

Caitlin nods, with a sympathetic smile. “Lorna took it out,” she says.

“She tried once before, but she couldn't get the metal through my skin, and we decided it was too dangerous.”

“Given what I saw the other night, I'd say it was a wise decision,” Caitlin says.

“It doesn't really matter now anyway,” John shrugs.

“Do you still have bits of metal in your back? It's pretty badly bruised, but I could see the scars.”

“Most of it is still there,” John says, “but it's not as painful anymore. The one that did this was the one that bothered me the most, really. Anyhow, the pain never really stopped, and we kept increasing the meds. And then after 7/15 I got kicked out of the army, my partner was arrested, I was...lost. I didn't have insurance anymore so I started getting my fixes off the street. I got clean when we started the station with Lorna.”

John doesn't realize how tense he's become through his narration until he makes an involuntary move that sends fire down his back. He grits his teeth and closes his fists around the sheet, turning his head away from Caitlin.

He tries not to think about the pill bottle in her pocket. The cravings never completely went away, but it's been a while since the sight of the pills was enough to induce one. John closes his eyes and concentrates on staying very still instead, riding out the wave of pain.

“What about the benzodiazepines?” she asks when he opens his eyes again. “Were they for the pain as well?”

John looks at her, trying to work out the words in his head. He stays silent for too long, because she understands on her own.

“You had PTSD?”

“I...I survived that IED because of my mutation,” John murmurs. “The rest of my unit didn't.”

Caitlin closes her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she says.

John nods. He tries to keep his emotions in check, surprised by the sheer strength of the sadness that assaults him. Everything seems exacerbated, since he got shot.

Knowing that it's his body and mind's way of dealing with the trauma doesn't help him feel less ashamed of his wet eyes. He angrily dries them with the back of his hand, looking anywhere but at Caitlin. Turning away to give him some privacy, she gets on with her tasks without asking anymore questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that this story is going strong, I would love to hear what you've especially liked so far, where you think it's going and if you have something you'd particularly like to see happen!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little conversation over lunch between John, Marcos and Clarice, amidst the tension and the grief of the situation.

Clarice comes back to John's room for lunch. She doesn't remark on John pushing her away, simply sitting back in what's becoming her appointed chair like nothing happened.

She does notice the breakfast plate he still hasn't touched, put away on one of the crates by Caitlin, but she stops herself from saying anything. She brings the crate over to the bed instead and lays on it the makeshift tray she's brought in.

They don't say anything for a while, John watching her move from his limited vantage point, still lying almost flat on his bed. He's getting seriously tired of the position, but the pain in his back became unbearable every time Caitlin tried to get him more vertical.

“I'm sorry,” he says eventually.

Clarice stops fussing over the tray and looks at him.

“What for?” she asks. John narrows his eyes at her, but he can't discern any resentment. She's genuinely confused.

“For being...distant. Uncooperative. I don't know. I didn't mean to drive you away.”

She sighs and sits down, reaching out until John takes her hand in his.

“I know that,” she says. “Don't worry. You're going through a lot. You're allowed to be angry, and scared, and sad. And you don't have to hide that from me.”

John shifts their hands until Clarice's is around his, not the other way around. He can't risk hurting her if the pain makes him tense up.

“I don't want to make this harder on you than it has to be,” he says.

“So what, you're gonna make it harder on yourself instead? Since you don't have enough going on already? You can't keep it all in, or it's going to kill you.”

John just shrugs, not quite looking at her.

“John, listen to me. Please.”

He meets her eyes, struck as always by the beauty and the depth of her green irises.

“You don't have to be strong all the time,” she says, insisting on every word.

The worst is that John knows she's right. In this situation, with injuries he can't hide−or hide from−he can't keep up the image he's tried to show everyone since they started this, of the rock, the invulnerable leader. That's done and over with.

But he's not sure how to do anything else. Pity is the last thing he wants, but he can already see it in his friends' eyes, hear it in the whispers about him he catches from the main room. And it's not going to stop anytime soon. The only times he's ever let go have been in anger, in violent grief, and that's something he can't afford. With how out of control his emotions have been, how little he can control his body right now, all he'd accomplish would be hurting himself or someone else.

Holding on is the only way forward.

“I know,” he says.

Clarice observes him for a little while longer, not convinced, then nods brusquely. “I brought lunch,” she says.

“I can see that.”

John can't actually see the tray from his position, but the smell and the trace it made through the room are enough to give him a picture. “Three plates?” he asks.

“Marcos should be here in a minute.”

“No Lorna?”

“She wasn't around,” Clarice says uncomfortably.

It takes John less than a second to locate Lorna on the other side of the main room, a clear picture forming in his mind's eye. She looks up, and their eyes could meet if there wasn't a closed door between them. She looks tired and beaten.

John doesn't comment on Clarice's affirmation. He's unsure whether she's actively lying or just trying to withhold information, but he simply doesn't have the energy to argue with her.

“Alright,” he says instead.

Clarice helps him raise his head a little with an additional pillow, though John has to grit his teeth through the wave of pain it triggers. He's getting frustrated of how little he can do on his own, as moving anything but his arms makes him want to scream. Clarice is helping him drink from a straw when Marcos knocks and walks in.

“Hey man,” he says softly to John, dragging in a crate to sit on.

He hasn't been here since yesterday morning, when they all found out that John couldn't move his legs at all. John hates the sad look on his face, that's not quite pity but already too close to it. Clarice and Caitlin are the only ones he's talked to so far and they were both supporting and comforting in their own way. Marcos is hesitant and fearful.

“How are you doing?” he asks like he's afraid of the answer.

“Fine,” John says, acting like he doesn't see how obviously absurd that response is.

Clarice would have given him sass, and Lorna a hard time. Marcos just stares.

“Is there any...change?” he asks hesitantly, looking down at John's legs.

“No,” John says, careful to keep his voice level.

Marcos nods, biting his lip. He seems to have no idea what to do. He opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything.

“Snap out of it,” John growls, after they've watched each other uncomfortably for a while. Clarice is squirming in her chair, but she clearly doesn't know how to diffuse the situation. John is just plain annoyed.

“Out of what?”

“Whatever's going on in your head right now. I don't have time to deal with you walking on eggshells around me. So I got hurt. It's a little worse than usual, but what's done is done.”

Marcos closes his eyes in dismay.

“I'm sorry,” he says after a while. “It's just...that car ride was...I don't think I've ever been this scared. Even when Lorna was in jail...”

John's memory of the ride is hazy, but he remembers enough. The gut-wrenching fear of realizing he couldn't feel his legs. The agony ripping through him at every bump on the road. Holding on to consciousness with everything he had, because he knew that if he went to sleep, he might not wake up again.

He can't dwell on it anymore.

“Lorna's free, and I'm alive,” he says. “The rest doesn't matter.”

Marcos frowns. “But it does matter,” he says.

Clarice glares at him. “Marcos−”

“Yes, of course it does, Marcos,” John hisses. “But we need to focus on the work we have to do, not on what can't be changed.”

“You're just gonna ignore−”

“Of course not!” John explodes. “I'm the one lying in a bed because of what happened, okay? I know−”

He has to stop talking to grit his teeth, as his sudden tensing sets his back on fire. The spasm lasts long enough to drain him completely, and he feels sluggish when he opens his eyes again, breathing hard.

“You alright?” Clarice asks softly.

John looks at her, her face worried but not pitying, and gives her a small nod.

Marcos watches them, tense, not daring to say anything that might set John off again. John would call him out again if he had enough energy left. Instead he turns his head away, since that's about as close as he can get to walking away from the conversation.

“You feel like eating?” Clarice asks.

“No,” John says honestly. “But I need to. Give me a minute.”

“You're feeling queasy? Caitlin left some anti-emetics you can take.”

“Thanks.”

John waits until he has his breathing back under control and the pain feels manageable again, then gestures for Clarice to give him his plate. His hands are too shaky to hold it properly, so Clarice has to help him keep it steady. John tries to get a proper hold on his spoon−at least Clarice had the foresight not to give him just a fork−but his position makes getting it to his mouth without dropping the food awkward. He groans, frustrated.

Clarice impresses him in how naturally she steps in to help, not quite feeding him but bringing him assistance every time he needs it, more and more often as his arms become heavier with tiredness. John still half-wants to throw the plate against a wall, but she smooths out his clumsiness without making him feel worse. Marcos watches them while picking at his own plate, silent. John and Clarice try to ignore him, but there's plenty of embarrassment on all sides.

Marcos waits until John pushes his plate away, and Clarice starts to eat hers, to speak.

“I'm sorry,” he says.

John sighs. “This is hard on all of us,” he says.

Marcos looks briefly like he wants to argue−probably to say, unthinkingly, that it has to be harder on John−but Clarice glares daggers at him again.

“We need to start talking about what comes next,” John adds.

Marcos nods, relieved at being let off the hook, at the change of subject. He launches into a brief summary of what Sage has found out. He still skirts around the subject of John's injury, but John doesn't expect any less.

“It could be a real advantage to us that they think we're all dead,” John says. “We'll have more freedom to move around, as long as we stay under the radar.”

“I don't know what to do about Lorna,” Marcos says quietly.

John stays silent for a moment. With everything else on his mind, he hasn't thought all that much about Lorna. She's his best friend, his sister, and he simply doesn't know what to think of what she's done.

“Are you asking for the Underground, or just for relationship advice?” Clarice asks.

“I don't know. Both. I mean, she was ready to leave all of us and go with the Frosts.”

John sighs. “Look, your relationship is none of my business,” he says. “But she's my friend, and she's pregnant. If she decides to stay, I am not going to turn her away.”

Marcos actually looks relieved, which confirms John's thoughts that however angry he is with Lorna, his only wish is to keep his family together.

“We'll have to deal with what she did, and the fallback from that,” John adds. “But everything's going to change now, with the station gone. We'll need all hands on deck.”

Marcos nods. “I'll...try to talk to her.”

“Good. I want you to call a meeting tomorrow.”

“Here?”

John nods.

“You sure? It's still early, it can wait. You need to rest.”

“I'm fine,” John says automatically. Given the dark look both Clarice and Marcos give him, he needs to stop defaulting to that phrase. “Okay, maybe not fine,” he admits. “But I can sit through a meeting, and we need a game plan. Quickly. We can't stay here forever.”

“It's been three days,” Clarice says. “Reed and Marcos have been making arrangement for us to stay a while longer.”

“That's exactly the kind of things I need to know about,” John answers.

“We're just trying to−” Marcos starts.

“You're trying to give me a chance to heal,” John interrupts him. “And I'm thankful, but it won't fly forever. I can't exactly wait until I'm all better, can I?”

Marcos hangs his head.

“Look, these walls aren't soundproof. I've been hearing things, and I'm sure you've noticed too,” John says. “Our people's resolve is crumbling. After Atlanta, after Charlotte, I can't blame them, but if we don't take real decisions soon, tensions are going to blow. I don't want a repeat of what happened after the Frosts killed all those agents.”

“So this is about taking back control?” Clarice asks, frowning.

“No. It's about showing everyone that we're still united.”

“Are we?”

John shrugs. “We lost the station. And now they're wondering whether we still have a leadership. And they're absolutely right to.”

“You want them to know you can still lead the station,” Marcos guesses.

“No,” John shakes his head. “We don't have a station anymore. I want to know if I need to step back and hand things over to someone else.”

“Someone else? People still look up to you.”

“Do they really? I did everything wrong. I let the station be destroyed. I let _kids_ get captured by Sentinel Services and experimented on. I let Lorna−”

“We're all responsible for that. None of these things are on you!”

“Yes they are!” John exclaims. “Because just as you said, people looked up to _me_. And I made those choices.”

“Everyone still trusts you, John,” Clarice says quietly, squeezing his hand. “Nobody wanted to start making decisions without you. We were just...lost.”

John sighs, looking away.

“That's the thing,” he says. “I don't know if I can keep doing it. Making decisions, I mean. Now that−” he makes a vague gesture toward his legs, discouraged.

“You don't need to walk for that,” Clarice says. “You can just make other people walk for you.”

John stares at her for a moment before he realizes that it's a poor attempt at finding humor in the situation. Clarice usually has better sass than this, but maybe she's as tired and dispirited as he is.

“You can do it, John,” Marcos says. “If you _want_ to step down, I'm sure everyone would understand, but no one will ask you to.”

“I don't...I don't know,” John hesitates. He doesn't think he wants to give up this role, not after he's given the Atlanta station everything he has for years, but he doesn't feel like he deserves these people's trust.

“Just think about it,” Marcos says. He gathers the plates back onto the tray and stands up.

John nods. “You're leaving?”

“I need to help Reed sort out the supplies we got last night,” Marcos answers.

“Alright. I wish I could help.”

“Best way you can help is by resting up and getting better.”

John doesn't remark that getting better might be an unattainable goal. It's left unsaid, heavy in the air. Marcos flees.

When he opens the door, he's almost run over by fifty pounds of dog.

“Zingo!” he yells.

The dog ignores him and bounds over to John's bed. John braces himself in preparation for her jumping on, but she stops short and sits by the bed instead, whining.

“Hey, girl,” John says softly.

“Sorry,” Marcos says. “We've been trying to keep her away, but she keeps hovering at the door.”

“It's okay,” John answers. “I missed you too,” he adds toward Zingo. She nuzzles his hand and lies her head on the bed.

Marcos closes the door behind him. John keeps petting Zingo for a while, lost in his thoughts.

He has a lot to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! As usual, don't hesitate to tell me what you think (I thrive on comments) and what you'd like to see for the future of this fic.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, where we get away from John a little bit to follow Clarice. Enjoy!

Clarice and John stay silent for a while after Marcos leaves, both absently petting Zingo, not looking at each other. She's still trying to process the fact that John feels so guilty about what happened in Atlanta and Charlotte.

They haven't really talked yet about anything beside his injury. It's been at the center of Clarice's thoughts since it happened, and John hasn't been conscious and coherent long enough to have that many conversations. But the loss of the station, which he learned about by bits and pieces since he woke up, is bound to have affected him badly, and she never really asked him what it feels like.

John removes his hand from Zingo's head suddenly, turning his head away. Clarice sits back, worried that it's another fit of back spasms, but she catches sight of the sudden brightness of his eyes. She bites her lip and lets him have a moment, focusing on Zingo instead.

After a while, John turns back to her, his eyes dry again, breathing deliberately slowly.

“What are you thinking about?” Clarice asks softly.

John doesn't answer, swallowing.

“John?”

He looks up at Clarice, something like desperation in his eyes.

“We've lost...sacrificed so much.”

Clarice nods slowly, taking his hand. For the first time since he woke up, he squeezes her hand back and doesn't try to wriggle out of her grasp to avoid hurting her.

“The station−” she starts.

“It shouldn't be that important since everyone made it out, but...it was my home.”

“I know,” Clarice murmurs. She feels the urge to hug him, but right now it would just be painful.

“I just...I can't really wrap my head around everything, not yet. I can't think properly.”

“It's a lot. And you're in pain. You need to give yourself time.”

“I don't think we have time,” John sighs. “I need to figure out some kind of plan before the meeting.”

“Are you sure the meeting can't wait a little longer?”

“If we wait, people are going to start wandering off, taking their chances on their own, and that's the best way for the Sentinel Services to find us. It's too dangerous.”

“Okay,” Clarice says. “In the morning, then.”

“Yes. If only I could move more...”

“John−”

“I know. I'm just tired of the pain,” John mutters.

“John, I don't understand,” Clarice starts. “Why won't you take the painkillers? No one needs them more than you do.”

“Caitlin didn't tell you?”

“Tell me what? She just said that you don't want them and she's not going to force you.”

John bites his lip. “I, uh… I have a history with pills.”

 

Clarice is still trying to digest John's story when she comes back out into the main room. She needs air, she decides. She crosses the room, barely paying attention to anything around her.

In the sheltered courtyard behind the garage, she finds Shatter and Reed in deep discussion, likely about the supplies that a team of mutants is sorting through at the other end. For lack of something better to do, she approaches them.

“Clarice,” Shatter nods at her.

“How's John?” Reed asks.

Clarice has had to answer this question so many times in the last two days that she doesn't even hesitate. “Holding on,” she says simply.

Reed nods in understanding. He married a nurse, after all. He knows there's no point in more details this close to the injury.

“He wants a meeting in the morning,” Clarice adds.

“Already?”

“Marcos tried to tell him it could wait, but he wants to talk about the situation.”

“Alright, but...isn't it a bit early for a full meeting?” Shatter asks.

Clarice shrugs. “I'm just the messenger,” she says.

Shatter nods, putting a hand on her shoulder. Clarice gives him a small smile but carefully steps out of his grasp. Being touched by anyone beside John makes her skin crawl right now.

“Can you tell the others?” she asks.

“I will,” Shatter says, retreating back inside.

Clarice runs a hand through her hair and leans against the wall. She's almost forgotten that Reed is still here when he speaks.

“How are _you_ doing?” he asks in a low voice.

Clarice looks up at him. “I...I don't really know,” she says. “It's only been two days, but it feels like an eternity. And at the same time like time has frozen.”

“I think we all feel a bit like that,” Reed says.

Clarice follows his line of sight to the group by the supply crates. Lauren and Andy are both among them. They look fine, if subdued, but they're standing apart, avoiding each other's eyes.

“They're not doing great,” Reed answers her unspoken question. “Lauren wakes up screaming every time she tries to sleep. And Andy won't talk to us beyond the bare minimum.”

“I heard what they did at the station,” Clarice says.

“You mean _to_ the station. I hate that they had to do that. And I hate even more that I'm scared of my own children's powers.”

“Reed...” Clarice starts. She's too tired to get her thoughts in order, but something needs to be said. “What they can do is incredible. And yes, it's dangerous. But being afraid of their powers, being afraid of _them_ , it will only hurt them. Maybe even encourage them to use their abilities badly.”

“I know, but−”

“As a kid, I went through two dozen foster homes, at least,” Clarice cuts him off. “All of the parents were afraid of me and what I can do, one way or another. Some took me back to the social worker the second they saw me, and some tried to beat it out of me. The best were caring, but they wanted to hide me away forever. Don't do that to your children. It's _your_ responsibility to embrace everything they are.”

Reed is looking at her strangely by the end of her rant. Clarice realizes she hasn't shared this much personal information with anyone but John. Reed stares for a while, then nods.

“I'll do my best,” he says.

Feeling vulnerable now, exposed, Clarice pushes herself off the wall and heads back inside. Reed goes to follow her, but he winces and brings a hand to his head.

“What's wrong?” Clarice asks him.

“Nothing, just a headache,” Reed answers. “I've had it all day.”

“Go talk to Caitlin about it,” Clarice says. “She's got actual painkillers, now.”

“I'll do that.”

Clarice watches Reed go. Before she can slip away back to John's room, Marcos invades her space, coming out of nowhere.

“I'm worried about John,” he starts, looking at her expectantly.

Clarice stares back at him. “I'm pretty sure we all are,” she says.

“No, I mean about his state of mind. He's not...dealing with this very well, is he?”

“You expected him to do what? Shrug it off and go on with his life? Or cry on your shoulder?”

“I don't know,” Marcos shakes his head. “I just−”

Clarice sighs when he trails off. She's already pissed about his behavior in there, and about how hesitant he was to go see John in the first place. Aren't they supposed to be best friends?

“Just let it go, Marcos,” she says. “This is not something you can fix.”

“So we let him pretend he's fine and nothing happened?”

“He's not pretending that!”

“Well it looks like that's what he's doing!”

_And you could tell that in the, what, fifteen minutes you spent with him?_ Clarice wants to shout. She doesn't. Having a row is the last thing they need right now. She tries to reason with him instead.

“Marcos, I haven't been around for very long, but even I can tell that John hate showing any weakness. He doesn't think he's allowed to be anything other than strong.”

“But that's the point! He can't keep doing that!”

“He knows that, Marcos. He's going to have to learn to depend on other people in ways that he never has before, in ways that are painful and humiliating, and that scares him. To be honest, it scares me too. Let him do it at his own pace. Let him pretend for a while if that's what he needs to do.”

“But what if it means he's not ready for−” Marcos makes a gestures that Clarice isn't even sure how to interpret, but she knows what he means.

“There's no being ready for what's happening to him,” she says.

“He needs to accept that−”

Clarice raises her hand to stop him, now really angry. “No,” she says. “You do. You need to accept that we can't fully relate to what he's going through, that he's going to work through it in his own way.”

“But−” Marcos starts, but she turns away. She likes Marcos, he's become a friend over the last few weeks, but right now she can't take anymore of this.

Marcos is afraid−terrified−of seeing his best friend so badly injured, of the road they're starting to make out in front of them, but it's not a reason to take it out on John, to project his insecurities like that. God knows John has enough to deal with as it is.

So does Clarice. Feeling her eyes burn, she gives up on crossing through the room and angrily opens a portal instead. She steps through into a storeroom in one of the unused buildings, the one Reed and his team haven't started to clear yet. Finally alone, for the first time since they left the station in Atlanta, she collapses against a crate.

The lack of sleep is taking its toll on her, but more than that, the tight ball of worry in her stomach doesn't let up. She's done her best to be strong so far, because John needs someone supportive at his side, not someone who will lay their troubles on his shoulders, but she doesn't know how long she can hold on.

She wonders when it will all implode. They're all being pushed past their breaking point. John is hanging on somehow, but Clarice can see him falter when he thinks she's not looking. Marcos went through the last day trying to pretend to himself that John's injury isn't that bad, that he'll be fine in the end. Lorna is still avoiding them all. Reed and Caitlin watch their children destroy themselves, powerless to help. Something has to give.

Maybe that something, right now, is her. Clarice presses a hand to her mouth when the first sob escapes her. She hasn't cried since the day Sonya died, and it's too much to keep in.

She weeps silently for a long while. It's relieving, in a way, like a pressure valve opening. It's doesn't alleviate her worries, it doesn't help the situation, but the tears take some of her tension with them. She just regrets not bringing any tissues, as she wipes her face with her sleeve.

Clarice looks up when the door opens. She didn't bother to lock it, since she didn't come through it, but it doesn't matter since Lorna is the one who steps through. She stops short at the sight of Clarice.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she says, raising her hands in apology. “I thought this room would be empty.”

“Me too,” Clarice mutters.

“I'll go.”

Lorna isn't looking at her, politely keeping her gaze toward the window to give her some privacy, but Clarice has time to see the way her eyes are shining.

“Wait,” she says before Lorna can leave. “You can stay. If we're both going to cry in an empty room and hide from the world, we might as well do it together.”

Lorna snorts, but it sounds more like a sob.

“Alright,” she says, dropping beside Clarice, scooting back until her back is to another crate. They're not touching, but this is the closest they've been since Charlotte. Maybe even since they met.

“Marcos talked to you?” Clarice asks, guessing at the reason Lorna is so rattled.

“Yeah.”

“It went badly?”

“I don't want to talk about it,” Lorna mutters. Her voice breaks a little at the end.

Clarice nods. “Okay,” she says.

She doesn't know herself what to do with what Lorna's done, what to think, but she doesn't have the same emotional involvement as Marcos and John. If anything, she's glad to know that the man who shot Sonya in cold blood in front of her isn't going to hurt anyone else. As for collateral damage...she hates that innocent people were on that plane, but her own hands aren't exactly clean.

She hasn't thought much until now about how little she actually knows Lorna. Marcos and John talk about her so much that she seemed to be an integral part of the Underground even when she was in jail.

Clarice touches her neck. “Did you fight it when you were in jail?” she asks impulsively. “The collar?”

Lorna nods. “A lot. At first I didn't know what it did, then I thought I could maybe overpower it. There was no metal in it, but I could feel the electricity. I couldn't use it, though.”

“I still dream about it,” Clarice says. “The shocks. And just the...the feel of the collar, I guess.”

“Me too,” Lorna admits. “How long were you in the detention center?”

“About three months, I think. There was supposed to be a trial, but−”

“You didn't have anyone to fight for you.”

“No. They could have gotten away with putting me in a hole and throwing away the key.”

“You have someone now,” Lorna says.

“John? Maybe. He needs help more than I do now.”

Lorna hangs her head.

“Marcos cares about you, too,” she says after a while.

Clarice looks up at her. “I never asked, but...what made you three look for me, the night I escaped the detention center? You don't...didn't do that kind of thing every day, right?”

“Sage was monitoring the police radio, and she alerted us to the search,” Lorna says. “I told John that we should get you. I thought, since you were the first person ever to escape a center without outside help, you probably had some power that we could use. John...he'll save anyone he can, that's just who he is, so he was on board right away.”

“So, I have you to thank,” Clarice says. “I never did thank you, did I? You got caught because of me.”

“Not really,” Lorna shakes her head. “It was foolish of me to attack that cop. I was so angry, so scared when Marcos got hurt, I just couldn't stop.”

Clarice closes her eyes, her memories of that night morphing into those of that never-ending car ride from Charlotte, with John in agony. She shakes her head to get rid of the images.

“Well, thank you for rescuing me, anyway,” she says.”

“Everything went wrong that night,” Lorna says slowly. “But for John… I think part of the reason he agreed to get you was that you escaping the detention center felt like a kind of revenge , for Pulse.”

Clarice nods slowly. “When you thought he'd died−” she starts.

“It was awful. Five other people died that night, friends, so we were all devastated. But John more than anyone else.”

“I can see how much he loved Pulse,” Clarice says.

“You're not jealous, are you?” Lorna frowns.

“No. I just...I don't know how to help him. He's grieving, and now with his injury...”

“I still haven't been to see him,” Lorna sighs.

“I noticed.”

“I just don't know if...if he wants me to.”

“He's waiting for you, Lorna,” Clarice says. “He can't go to you, or he'd already have.”

Lorna looks at her for a moment, searching her face, then turns away. Clarice gets up, leaving her to her thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. I wasn't expecting that conversation between Clarice and Lorna at all, they did that all on their own. But I like the idea of them getting closer. Did you enjoy this chapter?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lorna's big chapter! Well, it goes through several things that needed to be addressed, and it's a bit longer than usual as Lorna always takes up a lot of room for some reason :)

“You were going to leave, weren't you? And take with you whoever followed?”

Putting down her fork, Lorna looks up from the table where she's eating her dinner alone and frowns.

“I might have come with you, you know,” Sage says, dropping onto a chair. “I can't fight like you, but I can see what's happening out there. The X-Men's dream is getting away from us a little more every day.”

“I'm not sure I made the right call, here,” Lorna sighs. “They don't trust me anymore.”

She sees the looks everyone gives her. She keeps trying to convince herself that she only stayed because of John, but her friends giving her a wide berth hurts. She misses Sonya.

“They'll forgive you,” Sage says, in her usual abrupt manner. “But I worry that we're just going to go back to the way it was before, or worse. We'll never win this fight if all we do is defend ourselves.”

“I'm hoping that what happened to the station woke some of them up, but I don't know. Marcos is...he doesn't understand. He saw so much in the cartel, and back in Columbia, that he just wants peace.”

“I think it will depend on what happens to our leadership,” Sage says slowly. “I hate to say it, but it will all be on John. If he's still able to take the lead, or if he leaves it to Marcos and the Struckers. I don't think they'll let you make the decisions for a while.”

“Right. What about you?”

“I'm an analyst. I wouldn't make a good leader. Shatter doesn't want to do it, and Sonya's gone.”

“We need John,” Lorna says. “The Struckers will want to hide, and Marcos will go with the path of least resistance.”

“John hasn't taken the offensive before.”

“But he has, hasn't he? He got me out of jail. He tried to hit Trask. Just because it failed…He's lost a lot. He's angry. I think he can do it.”

Or at least, the old John would have been able to. Now...

“If he recovers,” Sage echoes her thoughts.

“When he recovers,” Lorna corrects her. “I'm not ready to write him off yet.”

“I'm just being realistic. I looked it up for Caitlin. There's a 76% likelihood that he will be able to walk again at least a little−”

“That's quite good,” Lorna interrupts her.

“−in a year. Even if he does recover completely, it's going to take time. Time we may not have.”

Lorna bites her lip.

“Look, all I'm saying is, we need to think about where to go from here,” Sage says, standing up. “And I'm not sure the Frosts are the worst option.”

Lorna watches her leave, pensive. Pushing her finished dinner plate away, she yawns widely. She hadn't realized until now just how tired she is. She's been keeping herself busy, actively avoiding the others and any conversation that might derail−except for Marcos, and that strange aside with Clarice earlier−but she's also barely slept, and has had to force herself to eat anything, trying to think of the child growing in her. Despite the ceaseless morning sickness, it's been hard to think about her baby, and her couple, amid the turmoil that their lives have become.

She catches herself staring at the door to John's room, not for the first time today. She kept track of the comings and goings while cleaning up the main room and moving in furniture with Shatter, but she hasn't approached it since yesterday morning.

She's terrified of what she's going to find, when she does go and knock. Marcos has kept her in the loop, so she knows that John has been awake and coherent through most of the day. Is he going to push her away, now that he's had time to think? Is he going to ask her to leave?

Lorna doesn't know what she'll do if he does. What happened to him is her fault, after all. He would be well within his rights not to want her close. And she broke what was probably the first principle she and John agreed on, starting the station. She killed innocent bystanders. In cold blood.

She still doesn't know whether she should apologize or stand up for herself. She does know that if John rejects her, it will be worse than if Marcos had.

Taking a deep breath, trying to ignore her trembling hands, she stands up and heads for the door. Her knock is weaker than she'd like, but John still hears it, of course. She wonders how much he hears of what goes on in the main room, if he's listened to the fearful conversations and the whispers about him.

“Can I come in?” she asks, opening the door.

“Of course.”

Lorna walks in hesitantly. Despite her expecting it, despite what she saw the night she took the bullets out of his back, seeing John lying down on the bed, immobile, his face drawn with pain, is still a shock. She can see the edges of the metal brace under the shirt he's wearing, the shape of his unmoving legs under a ratty blanket, and it makes her falter.

John looks calmly back at her.

“I'm surprised it took you so long,” he says.

“I was afraid I wouldn't be welcome,” Lorna answers, staying by the door, though she closes it behind her.

“I'll leave you guys to it,” Clarice says, standing up from the chair beside John's bed. Lorna had barely notice she was there, but Clarice gives her a complicated look as she passes her, echoing to their earlier conversation. Lorna looks away.

John doesn't try to sit up, but he gestures to her to come closer.

“Lorna, whatever happens, you'll always be my friend,” he says. “That's not going to change.”

Lorna is torn between relief and sadness at his words. She hasn't had time, or energy, enough to untangle her feelings over everything that has happened in the last month or so, no more than anyone else seems to have. Things are too complicated.

They've lost too much.

Everyone has been concentrating on what happened to John, and the destruction of Headquarters in the last few days, but they're also still mourning Sonya, and Pulse. John most of all. Lorna remembers how he was, when they came back without Pulse two years ago. He held on tight to his feelings until he got so sick he couldn't get out of bed for two weeks.

John has always been good at one thing Lorna isn't: pretending to be okay. Lorna easily cries and rages at the world. She yells at people, especially her closest friends, or curls up in a ball and refuses to come out.

“How are you doing?”

John carries on. He takes the weight of the world on his shoulders and he doesn't admit to anything being wrong until he crashes.

“Everyone keeps asking me that,” he sighs.

He'll say he's fine on his deathbed.

“What do you tell them?” Lorna asks.

Maybe that's why it's so rattling, to see him injured so badly that he can't hide it.

John shrugs with the one shoulder that's not covered in bandages. “I'm alright,” he says.

“Right,” Lorna says, doubtfully. “You know that doesn't work with me, right?”

“That's why I didn't tell _you_ ,” John answers.

“How are you really doing, then?”

John looks away. “Hurting,” he says softly. “It doesn't let up.”

Lorna sits down beside his bed, tucking one leg under her. “I never meant for you to get hurt.”

“Of course you didn't. I know that.”

“But I left you. And then, the explosion−”

Lorna stops herself, realizing belatedly that she's doing exactly what she promised herself no to. She's been so consumed with guilt that she can't help seek reassurance that John doesn't blame her. But having to comfort her is the last thing he needs right now. And he would be right to blame her.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I shouldn't be bothering you with that.”

“You're not,” John says, his voice sad. “You shouldn't blame yourself for what happened. It's not on you.”

“Isn't it?” Lorna finds herself drawn back. “I knew you'd been shot, I could feel the bullets inside you. I knew only I could get them out, but I left.”

“Lorna,” John starts. “This,” he waves down at his legs, “is the result of decisions I made, and random bad luck. It's not your fault.”

Lorna nods, if only to placate him. They don't need to have this conversation now. It's too early. They'll need to talk about everything else too, later, about the plane she brought down and what it means, about Headquarters, about where to go from there, but not now.

There's a knock on the door.

“Yes?” John calls, looking aggravated. It has to be hard on him, having people walk in and out while he can't move.

Caitlin walks in, carrying a bunch of medical supplies. She goes to put them away on the crate she's set up in a corner of the room before she even notices Lorna's there.

“Sorry, am I interrupting?” she asks. “I can go if this is a bad time.”

“It's fine,” Lorna stops her. “I can leave if you need me to.”

John grabs Lorna's wrist gently before she can stand up. “Wait. What do you want?” he asks Caitlin.

“Sage helped me look up how to do a proper mobility assessment, so we can figure out exactly the level of your injury and the severity. I wanted to do it while you're awake.”

“Okay, yeah, we should do this,” John says. He doesn't look enthusiastic, anticipating more less-than-good news, but he's determined.

“I'll go, then,” Lorna says, a bit disappointed that they didn't get to really talk. But this is more important.

John looks hesitant for a moment, but he doesn't let go of her wrist.

“What does it involve?” he asks Caitlin.

“For now, just figuring out how much you can move and testing your reflexes.”

“Stay,” John asks Lorna.

She nods, surprised and pleased. After the recent events, she would have expected him to want nothing to do with her. Clarice should be the one here for this.

But they've been through so much together, and John needs a different kind of support right now than Clarice can provide. He needs someone who won't fret, who can joke with him at the bad stuff and who won't look at him differently afterwards. He needs his best friend.

The process looks fairly innocuous to Lorna, from the outside, but for John it's excruciating. Every movement Caitlin imposes on his legs is torture, jostling his spine injury and causing deep spasms. Lorna watches helplessly and, when John refuses to keep holding her hand for fear of hurting her, she hugs his arm as tightly as she can manage.

Seeing his legs−his strong, muscular legs−lie listlessly on the bed, offering no resistance to Caitlin's effort despite John nearly screaming in pain, is distressing. Caitlin herself clearly hates what she's imposing on him, and her frown goes deeper every time John fails to move.

John lies his head back into the pillow when she covers his legs once again with the blanket, coughing harshly. Lorna doesn't let go of his arm and half-buries her head in his shoulder until his breathing calms down.

“What's the verdict?” John asks Caitlin tiredly, once he has settled enough to speak.

Caitlin bites her lip. “As I told you, the fact that you can feel your legs is good news, it means the injury isn't complete. An incomplete injury means you're almost certain to regain some function with time and physical therapy. You already have some motor function several segments below your injury, so it's a good sign.”

“Does it mean I'll be able to walk?”

“I don't know. There's no way to know. You could recover completely, or almost completely, or enough to walk with crutches or a cane. Or−”

“Or not even that,” John completes when Caitlin trails off.

“In any case, you'll need medical and physical therapy equipment we don't have, and professional help. And it's going to take time. Months, at least.”

John nods, his expression flat, and turns his head away to stare at the bare wall. His features are still drawn with pain, his hands still clutching fistfuls of sheet. Lorna stares, fighting to keep in the tears welling up in her eyes.

She's seen John in pain before, in bad situations and really bad days, but never like this. She's seen him have migraines so bad he couldn't stand up or open his eyes, push himself through insomnia and fatigue until he collapsed, beat a four-feet high concrete block into dust to distract himself from a craving.

She hasn't seen him this defeated since they lost Pulse.

While Caitlin retreats to the other side of the small room, giving them some semblance of privacy, Lorna discards the first phrases her brain offers, _I'm sorry_ and _it's gonna be okay_. She goes for something else, something that isn't a platitude.

“I won't give up on you,” she murmurs.

John turns to look at her. Lorna is amazed, for an instant, that he can meet her eyes with as much love and sincerity as when it was just the two of them, hauling each other through the storm. So much has happened since then.

“Does this make you think of the same thing as me?” John asks after a while. He seems calmer, more centered. He's reined in his feelings again to give the world a show of normalcy.

“The Professor?” Lorna guesses.

She has been thinking about it, a lot. They both spent years at the Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, before it was destroyed. They both grew up amid the X-Men and their legends.

John nods, looking down at his legs.

“It's not the same,” Lorna says, a little desperately. “You don't know if−” If it's permanent, she means to say. If he's ever going to walk again. If he'll end up spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair, just like Charles Xavier. The words don't make it out of her mouth. It seems unfathomable, still.

“You're right, it's not the same,” John says, and he's looking her in the eyes again. “You stayed.”

Lorna hangs her head. “I almost didn't.”

“But you did. Magneto didn't. He left, and he took Mystique with him.”

“What are you talking about?” Caitlin asks.

John and Lorna share a look. They sometimes forget that some people here didn't grow up listening to the same stories they did. Caitlin probably doesn't know anything about the X-Men beyond what made national news.

“Before the X-Men and the Brotherhood started fighting each other, their leaders were friends,” John starts. “Professor X and Magneto. You ever heard of the Cuba missile crisis?”

“Mutants were involved?”

“They did a good job with the cover up, but yes. The story goes that after they barely managed to avoid a nuclear war, the Navy and the Russians both tried to kill them all. Magneto turned on them and the Professor tried to stop him. Magneto accidentally deflected a bullet into his spine, then he left with the Professor's adopted sister, Mystique, to start the Brotherhood.”

“Just like I almost did,” Lorna mutters. “We're just reproducing their fights.”

“This Professor X,” Caitlin starts. “I've heard of him, but−”

“He was a powerful telepath,” John says. “And he was paraplegic,” he adds more quietly, looking away.

“John−”

“I know, it might get better. But I have to get used to the idea that it might not, too. I can't lead this...whatever we are, now, from a bed, or even a wheelchair.”

“The Professor did,” Lorna says.

“Yes, but it didn't affect his mutation. He didn't need to move to use his powers. I do.”

“There's plenty that can be done from here. Maybe not on missions, but you can still be useful,” Caitlin says in a conciliatory tone. John's eyes flash briefly in anger, not placated by the meaningless reassurances. This isn't what he needs.

Lorna sits down carefully on the edge the bed and grabs John's hand in hers, squeezing tightly.

“I'm glad I stayed,” she says.

John squeezes back, and it's just the two of them, Caitlin and the others forgotten. Just like at the beginning, when they found themselves suddenly on their own with a station to build from the ground up.

“Me too,” John says.

They stay silent for a moment, John shifting painfully against his pillows. Caitlin leaves quietly, and neither of them really notices.

“You know, I never thought before now of how hard it must have been, for the Professor,” John says. “To watch his best friend and his sister walk away and... I don't know, he always seemed so… I could never imagine him young and walking, you know?”

Lorna nods. “Me neither.” She bites her lips, hesitating. “You know,” she says after a while, “there might be even more parallels between then and now than we realize.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Frosts think Magneto's my father.”

“What do you think?” John asks, frowning.

“It's possible,” Lorna shrugs. “Our powers are similar, though I'm nowhere near his level. I always wondered… My aunt would never tell me. Or maybe she didn't know, I'm not sure.”

“It doesn't make you like him, Lorna.”

Lorna looks away. “But what I did...doesn't that make me just like him? I was so angry…”

“Only if you let it,” John says. “With what happened at Headquarters, and Campbell's death, everything is going to change. We'll all have to make hard decisions.”

“They said a war is coming,” Lorna murmurs.

“Yes. And I think it's already started. We're on our own, Lorna. And you're pregnant, and I'm−” John chokes on his words.

“We have to stay together,” Lorna says, the realization only now fully downing on her. It doesn't matter, that they don't always agree on the methods. At the end of the day, their fight is still the same.

Survival. “Us against the world.”

John nods. “We can't keep hoping they'll come back. They're gone. The Professor. Scott, and Jean, and Storm, and the others. Gus. And now Sonya.” He squeezes her hand until it hurts, closing his eyes. His voice is rough when he speaks again. “I can't lose you too, Lorna.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Lorna swears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a confession to make: this last scene where John and Lorna address the parallel between their situation and Charles and Erik (taken right out of First Class, obviously) is one of the first things I wrote for this story. The moment I had the idea of John being paralyzed, I knew it would have to feature in there somewhere. So it's been sitting on my computer for close to six months waiting to find a place to fit in.
> 
> I hope you liked the chapter, and please tell me what you think! I love writing John/Lorna sibling relationship, which we saw far too little on the show. What did you like in this chapter? What would you like to see further in this story?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally getting to this meeting that's been talked about for at least three chapters. A lot of world- and story-building in this one, less one-to-one emotional conversation, but we need some of both in this story.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!

“Help me sit up,” John asks Caitlin the next morning, once she's done changing his dressings.

“Are you sure? It's going to be painful.”

“I'm tired of lying down. I need to be able to see everyone.”

“Alright. But only as long as the meeting lasts, okay? And don't overdo it. You could injure yourself further.”

John is already exhausted by the time he and Caitlin have managed to get him mostly upright, leaning on a pile of pillows. The brace is essentially the only thing holding him up, his body too weak to do the job. The pain in his back is barely bearable, but John grits his teeth and closes his fist around a handful of sheet. It fades a little, very slowly, until he can finally focus on something else.

Keeping his balance properly is a lot harder than John had anticipated. With his hips inert, his upper body has to do all the work. In the end, he doesn't try to hold the position and lies back into the pillows. It's still better than flat on his back.

A first taste of what's to come, John thinks bitterly. He tries not to stare at the hospital wheelchair that sits in a corner of the room, within his field of vision for the first time. He shakes his head to get rid of the thoughts and looks up at a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he calls. His voice is still hoarse from the coughing fits and the pain, and he hates how weak it sounds. He already knows he looks like death warmed over, and the threadbare hoodie he's wearing over the brace isn't making his appearance any better, but it can't be helped.

Clarice comes in, leaving the door open and taking her now customary place on the chair by John's bed.

“You're up,” she notices. “Feeling alright?”

“Good enough,” John says, not elaborating on his recent thoughts.

Clarice still picks up on his wavering, though. She's becoming too good at gauging his moods.

“We're among friends,” she says.

“I know.” But this isn't a friendly situation. This isn't John's circle of friends coming to see him in the hospital after an accident. This is a group of lost mutants who need to know if they can still rely on him.

After he left them to fight their way out of a situation he created.

As the others start to file in, he's dazed by what he sees in their faces. There's hesitation there, tentativeness in the face of his injury, but, more than that, there is trust. Not hope, everyone is grim after what happened to the station, but unwavering trust.

It amazes him, that after everything that happened, even seeing him in a bed unable to move, they still look to him to lead them. John almost expected them to move on, to choose a new leader, especially with his recent track record, but he can see nothing but trust in everyone's eyes. Lorna, who was ready to leave just two days ago. Fade, who's been less and less willing to follow his requests. The Struckers, who have yet to truly recognize his leadership. All of them are waiting for him to make the decisions.

John sits up a little straighter, in his mind if not in reality.

Lorna plops down on the edge of his bed, careful not to touch his legs, and Sage empties a crate to sit on it with her laptop. The rest of them stay standing, dispersing around the room.

“It's good to see you awake,” Shatter says. Not 'how are you feeling?', because making John lie in front of all of them serves no point. John nods to him gratefully.

“A lot has happened in the last few days,” he says, addressing everyone. It's not the time to make a grand speech, and he definitely doesn't have the strength for that, but he still needs to acknowledge the recent events. “We were attacked, and our home was destroyed. It's almost a miracle that everyone got out, though I want to thank everyone for the incredible job you did getting everybody to safety.”

“We still destroyed the station,” Lauren remarks, bitterness in her voice.

John turns to her. Andy isn't here, but John doesn't know if it's because his parents didn't let him come or because he wasn't interested.

“You did everything you could,” John says. “No, actually, you went above and beyond. And you shouldn't have had to. You shouldn't have been alone. I'm sorry we weren't there.”

Lauren nods, biting her lip. John makes a note to talk to her later, before it hits him, once more, that he doesn't have that kind of independence right now. He can only talk to her if she comes to him.

“Our current...situation is temporary, at best,” he continues. “We need to figure out where we go from there. I'm sorry, I wish I could give you all more time to get your bearings and to grieve for what we've lost, but time is something we're running out of.”

“We all wish that,” Marcos mutters, and several people nod.

“Where do we start?” Shatter asks.

“Lorna,” John turns to his friend. “What do you know about the Frosts' plans?”

“Oh, we're going to trust _her_ , now?” Reed sneers.

Lorna is capable of defending herself, and John almost lets her, but she looks hesitant suddenly, as all eyes turn to her. She may stand by her decision, but in here she's alone in her corner. There's more disdain in Reed's voice than John is willing to let slide.

“I trusted you once, when I had no reason to,” he says. “There isn't a single person here who hasn't made...questionable decisions at one time or another.”

“You're going to excuse terrorism?”

“No. But we are at war. Truly, now. And you, as a prosecutor, may have been on the right side of the law, but don't fool yourself into thinking you didn't do just as much harm to some people.”

“I never killed anyone,” Reed says, a bit too fast. He opens his mouth in shock when he realizes what he's just said, and turns to Lauren with wide eyes. John is briefly thankful that Andy isn't here.

“I didn't mean−” Reed starts, panicked.

“Yes you did, Dad,” Lauren says. She's close to tears, but amazingly holding her ground. “But John is right. We _are_ at war. We can't keep building walls between us.”

Reed briefly looks like a fish out of water, and Caitlin seems to hesitate between pride and worry staring at her daughter.

“Well said,” Marcos says when no one dares to talk for a while.

“Lorna, the Frosts?” John asks. He takes the opportunity of everyone looking at Lorna once more to bite his tongue hard against the spasms in his back.

“I don't know much about their plans. As I've already said, the organization they're part of is called the Inner Circle. It's based in D.C.”

“D.C.,” John repeats. There are so many vital government buildings in D.C. And if this Inner Circle really has as much money and power as it seems, combined with powerful mutants, they could take over anything they want. “What's their endgame?”

Lorna swallows. “A mutant homeland,” she says, defiantly looking him in the eye.

John sighs. He can see the appeal, he really can. It's a dream he could have stood for, once, when he was angry at the whole world. But knowing war intimately gives him an insight most people in this room probably don't have.

“It would be a massacre,” Reed mutters.

John would have thought he'd stay quiet, after his earlier blunder, but for once he wholeheartedly agrees with him. Reed has his faults, but he does have a sharp, politically-oriented mind.

“If the humans won't let us live with them, we need a place of our own,” Lorna says, her face closed.

“Does that place include people like us?” Caitlin asks.

Lorna actually comes short on an answer. John is fairly sure it's not that she hasn't thought about it, and more that she sees Lauren's anguished face and doesn't want to answer no in front of her.

“People, now is not the time to have that discussion,” John says. The argument, inclusion _versus_ separation, is older than mutants, and there's very little point in rehashing it. It was at the center of the X-Men's creation, of the Brotherhood's action. Just because surviving has been more of a priority than philosophical musings since 7/15 doesn't mean all the mutants here haven't had some version of that discussion hundreds of times. Only the Struckers, perhaps, are new to it.

And John knows he's definitely not well enough to stay awake through debating it with them. Time is pressing, at least on that front.

To stress his point, he lets go of a tiny bit of the control he's holding on his features, wincing at yet another back spasm.

“Do you need us to leave?” Caitlin asks immediately.

“I'm fine,” John says.

“John,” Shatter starts hesitantly. “Can I ask...we've all heard something about your injuries, but−”

“But rumors travel fast,” John understands. He pauses, trying to think of how to formulate things. “I was shot in Charlotte by Campbell's security. My body can withstand a lot, but not heavy fire from automatic weapons. My spinal cord appears to have been hit, which means I currently can't walk.”

“Is it−”

“It remains to be seen how much of it will be permanent, but for now it means there are some things I would normally handle that I won't be able to do, so we'll have to adapt,” John tries to veer the conversation away from him.

“John−” Shatter pursues his lips.

“Anything else I would rather discuss in private,” John stops him, looking around the room. All the people here are his friends, to some extent at least, but he doesn't feel comfortable getting more personal while he's half-lying in a bed looking up at almost a dozen people. It's hard enough as it is.

“Of course,” Shatter relents.

“Now we need to figure out what we're going to do,” John says. He turns to Sage. “What's the situation in D.C? Everywhere, actually. We need to know before we plan our next move.”

“D.C.'s been spared so far, I think,” Sage answers. “They still have a pretty strong mutant presence, with some support from the district. But our people have been hit hard in the south, especially.”

“Have you been on the Network?”

“I need your access codes.”

“Come here,” John gestures. Sage brings him the laptop and helps him put it on his lap. It's awkward, not being able to adjust his legs to get in a better position, but he makes do. With one stroke of the keyboard, Sage brings up the proper page.

“What are you talking about?” Reed asks.

John answers while typing. “We have a clandestine network for the whole Underground, it's the best way to know what's going on. It's essentially a message board where we update each other on the situation. Only station leaders have access codes, to keep it as secure as possible.”

“What happens if a station goes down?” Caitlin asks, clearly thinking of the raid in Atlanta.

“Some members have emergency access only. Marcos and Sage can post a message if Lorna and I are both dead or captured and wait for instructions.”

“That sounds...useful,” Reed says doubtfully, looking disturbed at the idea.

“We've put safeguards in place a long time ago. Running something like the Underground is extremely dangerous, so we had to have a way to protect our members even if we got raided. That's why only Lorna and I have full access, because we both have experience with resisting interrogation methods _and_ telepathic probes. Actually, you guys should get the emergency passwords too, just in case.”

“I'll show them,” Sage says.

“Clarice, too. Here,” John passes her back the laptop. He's too tired to try to read the messages, and Sage will be faster anyway. He pushes his head back into the pillows, wincing.

“You sure you're okay to do this?” Sage asks him quietly.

“We need to,” John answers. He's fading faster than he'd hoped, but they need answers.

Sage sits back down and starts scrolling down her screen at her usual impossible speed. “It's not good news,” she says. “It looks like the Sentinel Services have concentrated their efforts on the South. They've hit every major station south of here except the West Coast Headquarters in L.A.”

John closes his eyes. This is nothing short of disastrous. It means they've lost any way to get people through the border, and to help refugees in at least a dozen states.

And it's all his fault.

“Body counts? Survivors?” he asks.

“You want me to−” Sage trails off.

John opens his eyes again and looks around him. Lorna and Marcos already look horrified, just like everyone here who knows what this means. The Struckers mostly seem lost, and maybe adding to that isn't the best thing right now.

“No, you're right,” he says. “Later.”

Sage nods.

“And D.C.?” he asks.

“It's been quieter. There have been some arrests, raids on mutant-friendly places, but the Underground hasn't been hit yet. Baltimore's lost−dammit!” Sage swears, completely uncharacteristically. Several people jump around the room, and John mentally runs down the list of people they know up the East Coast.

“Slipstream?” he asks Sage.

She nods, looking away.

“Sage, I'm sorry.” John wishes he could reach her shoulder to comfort her, but she's too far from him. She'd probably reject it, anyway. Sage rarely lets anyone touch her.

“He was one of the station leaders,” she says, swallowing. “The station is safe, but they've lost a lot of people. They don't have anyone to take his place, so Magma's calling for someone from the outside.”

“Okay.” John tries to give her some time to come back from the shock. 

He has a hard time himself coming to terms with the news. Slipstream was Sage's friend long before the Underground even started, but John has met him a couple times. And that's not even counting everyone who died in the other raid s , whose names he doesn't know yet.

I t's worse than bad news. The consequences of their unwise trip to Charlotte are turning out to be so much worse than John even imagined. For a moment, he can't breathe, the blinding panic of knowing that it's all on him, that what's to come may be even worse, is too much to handle. If the Sentinel Services have managed to hit this many stations in just a few days, what hope do they have to make it through this storm? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to break up the meeting in two chapters, as it grew much longer than expected. A lot had to be addressed, it turns out. So see you next week for the second part!
> 
> In the meantime, please tell me what you think about this chapter and where this story is heading!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes up right after the end of the previous one, with the rest of the station meeting. I'm sorry I left poor John sitting up painfully for over a week :)

John shifts painfully against his pillows, trying to pretend there isn't eight people in the room watching his every move. Sage seems to have recovered from her shock at the news of a friend's death, at least for now, so he takes a deep breath and moves on.

“I'm starting to think we'll have to split up,” he says. “We need a safe place right now, at least for the children and the non-fighters. We have too many vulnerable people to build a new station from the ground up, especially given the political changes. But no station will be large enough to take in all of us.”

“So where do we go?” Marcos asks.

“Baltimore is a good place to start. Shatter, how would you feel about becoming station leader?”

Shatter has always stayed away from the decision-making, preferring to work with the refugees than to take a political stand, but John knows he's ready. He has a head for long-term planning, and he's the best at figuring out supply routes.

“Me?”

John nods.

Shatter hesitates. “I need to think about it.”

“That's okay,” John says. “Whatever you decide, that's probably where we'll channel non-fighters and children.”

“We should leave some people here, too,” Reed says.

“Yes, but that will be on a voluntary basis. This station isn't as established, and it looks like it's going to become our outpost in the South, now that we've lost everything else. It's going to be far more dangerous.”

“What about the rest of us?” Lorna asks. “I'm assuming we're not going to Baltimore.”

“You can if you want to,” John answers, his eyes going to her belly. “That's where your child will be safest.”

“John, you know I'm not going to stop fighting just because I'm pregnant. I want a better world for this child, not a life of hiding.”

“You can fight in other ways, too,” John shrugs. “At least I hope so,” he adds more quietly. Lorna gives him a sorry glance. “Going to Baltimore doesn't mean giving up, only a little less danger.”

“I didn't mean−” Lorna starts.

“I know you didn't,” John nods. “For those who want a more active role, we'll need people in D.C.”

“To what?” Reed asks. “Get back at the Frosts? At this 'Inner Circle'?”

“It's not about getting back at anyone. But they're up to something, something big. Now maybe they really want to build something for mutants, and want to do it properly, and we'll want to be a part of. Or they want more destruction, and we have to stop them. Either way, we need to figure out what they're up to.”

“So we go to D.C.? And then what?” Marcos asks.

“We can reach out the Underground members there. They don't really have a station, more of a triage area paired with a network of people to go to and places to stay. If we explain our situation, they should be able to set us up with something.”

“If they're willing to work with us,” Lorna interjects. “After what happened to our station, it's less than sure.”

John hangs his head. “I can talk to them,” he says. “They shouldn't hold all of us responsible. And at the end of the day, their job is still to take in people who have nowhere to go.”

“Alright,” Clarice says. “So most of us head to Baltimore and some to D.C. When? How?”

“We'll have to drive up there,” Marcos answers. “John?”

“Caitlin, I need a time frame here. How long until I can travel?”

“You want to go to D.C.?” Caitlin chokes. “Now?”

“That's what we've been saying, yes.”

“Oh, I thought we were talking about those of you who can fight,” she says sarcastically. “You can't go after the Inner Circle like this, John!”

It's almost funny, to see everyone braced for his explosion. They've been walking on eggshells, letting him take the lead on the conversation without daring to mention his injuries, all wondering if he's already forgotten. But it's not like he can actually forget, the way his back keeps spasming every time he tries to breathe.

John lets out a breath and sighs. “I know, Caitlin. I'm not that out of it.”

“But D.C. isn't actually a bad idea,” Lorna says. “I mean, beyond whatever the Inner Circle is doing there.”

“Why? What's in D.C.?” Caitlin asks.

“There's a mutant-friendly clinic. One of the last in the country. John could get real medical care.”

“Actually friendly,” Marcos adds. “Not like the one you saw.”

Caitlin closes her eyes. “Alright. Medical care is a good thing, yes,” she says slowly. In that moment, they can all see just how tired she is. John realizes that he hasn't really thought about how much she's dealing with, trying to help her children through so much trauma, and handling all his care on her own. She's not a doctor, but she's had to make all the decisions and take responsibilities far beyond her knowledge.

“Caitlin−” John starts.

She opens her eyes to look at him, and he notices the bags under her eyes. He promises himself to talk to her later, but now isn't the time. “How soon?”

Caitlin sighs. “That long a road trip? Maybe two weeks. With no more than six hours in the car per day, frequent breaks, and an actual bed at each end.”

“We can't afford−”

“John, I know money is tight, but in this case, _you_ can't afford anything less. This is already running the risk of more permanent injury. I'm only on board with it because there's the clinic at the end.”

“We'll find a way,” Marcos says. 

J ohn bites his lip and nods. “Okay.  But it's too long, we can't have everyone waiting for me. We need to move before supplies run out completely and we put this place in danger.”

“I agree,” Lorna says. “And it would be better if some of us head up to D.C. first to arrange things with the Network over there. That way we could have a place to stay ready for you when you get there.”

“Right,” John nods unhappily. “Shatter, whatever you decide, I'd like you to organize the move to Baltimore. You'll need to go in small groups, two cars at the most, to avoid looking suspicious.”

“I'll get right on it,” Shatter says.

“The journey will take at least two days, especially with the children, so get the proper supplies.”

“John, Shatter can do this,” Lorna says. “Now is a good time to start delegating.”

John sustains her gaze for a moment, not quite glaring at her. He would have probably exploded in anger at anyone else  saying that ,  but they understand each other on a deeper level. Lorna knows what this means for him. 

After a while, he nods. “Okay. I want to make it clear once more that you can all choose where you want to go. Nothing in this is compulsory.”

“Good,” Marcos says. “Lorna and I will go to D.C. to start looking for a place to stay. We'll probably head out with the last people to go to Baltimore, to make sure things are tied up here.”

“I want to go to Baltimore,” Sage says. “To pay my respects, at least, and speak with Magma. You don't need me physically here to use my skills, so I'll be available by phone if you need me.”

“I'll go to Baltimore too,” Fade speaks up for the first time. “You'll need me as protection for the children.”

John nods at them. “Clarice?”

“I'm staying with you, of course,” Clarice says, as if no other option has even crossed her mind.

“You don't have to,” John says.

“We've already talked about this.”

John relents, not wanting an argument in public, but he makes a note to talk to her more later.

“Caitlin, Reed?”

“You're going to need me at least until you're in D.C.,” Caitlin says.

“And we're not splitting our family again,” Reed says. “We're staying together.”

“Will you stay in D.C. afterwards?”

“We'll have to discuss it.”

“Alright,” John nods. “You don't need to make that decision right now.”

By now, he's struggling to even keep his eyes open, exhausted. He tries to figure out if there's anything else they need to discuss urgently, but his thoughts are swimming out of his reach.

Marcos picks up on it and takes a step forward. “Let's get on those preparations, people, and give John some space.”

As everyone files out, John nods at him gratefully. The tension of the meeting, the presence of too many people, too much noise and smells to his exhausted senses have worn him out completely.

“Sage, Lorna, please stay behind?” he asks anyway.

Both women nod. Clarice shifts beside John, and he turns to her.

“Do you want me to step out too?” she asks.

John nods. “Please, just give us a moment.”

“Okay. I'll be back with lunch.”

“Thank you,” John nods.

“Do you need to lie back down?” Caitlin asks.

John notices gratefully that she's waited until the room was nearly empty. He bites his lip, hesitating. He's tired of lying down, but the pain in his back is quickly reaching unbearable levels again.

“John,” Caitlin calls, waiting until he looks at her. “I've already told you this, but pain takes up energy your body needs to heal.”

John sighs. “Okay,” he says.

He hates feeling Sage and Lorna's looks on him as Caitlin carefully removes some of the pillows behind his back,  holding him up with one arm when he can't even do that. Once his breathing slows down enough−the breathing exercises he learned in the Marines have never been this useful−the pain recedes slightly, but John has to force himself not to avert his eyes from his friends in shame.

“I'll leave you to it,” Caitlin says. She throws John one last worried look. “Just remember you need the rest. Don't overdo it.”

John knows he's already overdoing it, that his body tried to tell him it was enough half an hour ago, but he just nods. Caitlin knows it, too, but she also knows he needs this. And more than anything, the Underground needs him.

“What did you want?” Lorna asks, sitting back down on the edge of his bed.

“We need to inform the Network of what's happened,” John says. “And I want the details on the raided stations. I have too many friends there.”

“Okay,” Sage says, taking Clarice's chair. “I'm already logged in, so I can write a message, just tell me what to put in it.”

“That our station was destroyed, but there was no casualty, and nothing was compromised.”

“What about Charlotte?” Lorna asks hesitantly.

John sighs. “I'm not sure, that's why I wanted you to be here. Should we tell them you were the one to bring down the plane? We need to inform them of the existence of the Inner Circle at least.”

“Do you think they'll try to kick me out?”

“I won't let them,” John says. “The national leaders are mostly there to coordinate between us, anyway, I don't think they would do something to create a rift between us.”

“I think they need to know,” Sage says. “I don't want to step on your toes, of course, but shouldn't we give them what we know about the Hound program? Someone is bound to try an resurrect it at some point, and there's probably still mutants out there who are under their power. It should be monitored closely.”

“You're right,” John says. “Lorna?”

“I'm okay with telling them I brought down that plane and why,” Lorna nods. “I just hope they won't shun us in D.C. or Baltimore because of it.”

“I wish I could go talk to them in person,” John sighs. “Anyway, yes, do it.”

“Should we say that you're injured?” Sage asks.

John averts his eyes. “ Probably,” he says. “Just write that I was shot non-fatally in Charlotte, currently recovering, okay?”

“John−” Lorna starts.

“It's the truth,” John points out.

Lorna raises an eyebrow. “Right.”

“Lorna,” John says. “I'm not trying to pretend everything's fine, or that this didn't happen. But we have a lot of other things to worry about right now. Let me deal with this my own way, okay?”

Lorna nods. “Okay. I just… I don't know. We should let you rest.”

“Sage, can you leave me the laptop for a while? I want to go through the message board myself.”

Sage opens her mouth as if to refuse, but Lorna shakes her head at her discreetly, though John doesn't miss it. “Sure,” she says, passing the laptop to John and standing up. “I just posted that message. I don't need it for now.”

John watches them both go with some relief, as it means he can finally drop the mask and give in to the pain.  He spends some time trying to find a position in which he can see the laptop screen, and starts reading,  pressing on despite his fatigue.

T he list of people dead, injured, or captured is endless. Many of those names are ones he knows, people he's met or communicated with  in the last few years. Too many. John has to stop halfway through one particularly bad account of a raid to bite down hard on his fist, refusing to let out the tears threatening to fall.

They've lost so much. His home of the last four years is gone, pulverized, along with everything he and Lorna built together. He's lost Sonya, and Pulse, and he hasn't yet let himself truly mourn for them. And now he's lost his legs, and has to face the prospect of a life of pain and dependence. In a world determined to destroy his people.

However much his friends want to reassure him, John can see the  same  fear and worry  and grief in their eyes.  Tomorrow is a scar y prospect, for all of them. For all mutants everywhere.

And a future beyond  tomorrow is not a dream they can afford  to  think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended more bitterly than I originally wanted, but John doesn't have a lot to look forward to at the moment. He's allowed to have a hard time, too, even if he doesn't want to show it to his friends.
> 
> Now we have a better idea of their plans for the future and how, you've guessed it, this story will tie up with season 2. It won't be for a while yet, of course, and it will be a very different season 2, but it's coming.
> 
> Please tell me what you think!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the last two chapters quite heavy on setting the scene for what's to come, here's a quiet, reflexive chapter.

John wakes up from his doze at a knock on the door.

“Come in!” he calls.

It's been a day since the meeting, but he's still exhausted. He spent most of yesterday in a daze, after the others left. Clarice, Marcos and Lorna came back several times, for lunch and dinner, but John barely remembers. The meeting, and his private emotional outburst that followed, were more taxing than his body can currently handle.

He's surprised when it's not one of his friends who comes through the door, but Lauren.

“Hi,” she says softly, staying beside the door.

“Lauren,” John nods, waiting for her to tell him what she wants.

“I'm not really sure what I'm doing here. I guess I just wanted to know how you were doing.”

John shifts uncomfortably, wishing he could at least sit up, and regrets it when sharp pain erupts down his back. Beside being excruciating, moving by himself is too risky for now, but it's harder to accept lying nearly flat on his back in front of Lauren, who looks up to him, than with Clarice or Caitlin.

He grimaces. “I've been better,” he says simply. “But you don't need to worry about me. Come here,” he indicates the chair beside his bed.

Lauren hesitantly sits down. She observes him for a while, her eyes lingering on the visible edges of the brace under his shirt. Despite feeling more self-conscious by the minute, John lets her take her time. Despite what she said, she's here for a reason, and it's not to check up on him.

“Everyone says you can't move your legs,” she says eventually.

John nods. “That's right.”

“Mom said it's probably just temporary,” Lauren adds.

“We don't really know,” John says, firmly reining in his emotions. He's usually better at this, but it's harder when he can barely breathe through the pain.

“I'm sorry.”

“No, don't be. You didn't do anything. In fact, you saved everybody while we were gone. I'm the one who's sorry, for leaving you guys alone.”

Lauren meets his eyes questioningly, not fully understanding what he's trying to say. John tries to return a level gaze.

“You had to go to Charlotte,” she says.

John shakes his head. “No. We went head first into what was basically a trap laid by the Frosts, whatever their reasons. We could have found another way, especially knowing the Sentinel Services were closing in on us.”

“You couldn't have known they'd find the Headquarters so fast.”

“We knew they had Hounds, with unknown powers. It was reckless to leave when we did. But it's done, now. We all have to live with the consequences.”

“Like your legs?” Lauren asks hesitantly.

“Yes,” John acknowledges with a sad smile. “But also what you did. I'm sure it wasn't easy.”

Lauren hangs her head. There we go, John thinks. He guessed right about what's on her mind.

“I can't get their faces out of my head,” Lauren says, looking at her feet.

“The Hounds?”

“All of them. There were agents too. We stood there and just...destroyed them. I don't even know how many there were.”

“I'm sure you've already heard this,”John starts, “but you did what you had to do.”

“I know. But it just...it doesn't help much, knowing that. Rationally, I know what we did saved lives, but it also took lives.”

John nods. “That's the hardest part of fighting. Knowing that even when you do the best possible thing, there are consequences to your actions. That sometimes those consequences are someone's life.”

“It feels like you're the only who understands,” Lauren says. “My parents just don't get it. And the rest...well, Lorna's killed people, I guess, but it doesn't seem to bother her.”

“It does bother her, I can tell you that. Lorna...she's lived a lot of things that mean that she reacts a bit differently, but she's not insensitive. If she killed for pleasure, she'd have left the Underground a long time ago.”

“But she brought down that plane.”

“It was what she thought she had to do,” John says.

“Did she? My parents keep acting like she was just wrong to do what she did, but at least Campbell can't hurt us anymore.”

John bites his lip and studies her for a moment. Lauren squirms under his gaze. He tries to raise his head more, so he can look at her properly, but he has to bite off a grunt when his back spasms in response.

Lauren gives him a concerned look, but he waives it off.

“Listen,” he says when the pain eases. “Your parents are still trying to protect you from all of this because they think you're too young, but I don't think hiding things from you is going to help you. What you've been through, and what you did, I think you can understand that there are situations where there is no right decision. Where whatever you do is going to hurt people, and you just have to do your best and make your choice. That's what you did at the bank. That's what Lorna did in Charlotte. The law may say otherwise, but you were both defending yourselves and the people you love.”

“Then why is everyone treating it like what I did was right and not Lorna?”

“Because there is a difference. Lorna made her decision without us, and she brought down that plane despite knowing there were innocent people in it.”

“We killed those mutants knowing they didn't actually want to hurt us,” Lauren says, bitterness coloring her voice.

John waits until she raises her head and looks at him.

“I won't give you a speech about how you didn't have a choice. You already know that. But like I said, these are times when there is no right choice, no good option. If it can comfort you at all, you freed these people from torture.”

“Does that make it okay to kill them?”

“Nothing ever makes killing okay, but sometimes the circumstances make it less...bad. The Hounds… What Campbell did to them is unspeakable. You saw that woman die. Chloe. And my friend, Pulse. I know dying was a relief for him.”

“You really think so?”

“Pulse was a Marine like me,” John answers. “If I was in that situation, if I was forced to attack my friends and lose control of my mind, I'd want to be stopped too.”

Lauren nods. “Me too, I guess.”

“Campbell is the one who did this to them. Not you. You just ended it, for everyone. You saved so many people, Lauren, you and your brother. Don't ever forget it.”

“I'll try not to,” Lauren says, starting to get up. “I should let you rest.”

“Wait,” John stops her. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

John signals her to sit back down, but he turns his head away when a cough wracks his body, sending a wave of agony down his body. It takes him several minute to ride it out enough to talk.

“You okay?” Lauren asks, worried.

“Yeah. This whole getting hurt thing isn't as much fun as you'd think.”

Lauren is too young, too scared to react to his terrible sense of humor with sass, like Clarice or Lorna would. She just nods, looking a bit bewildered.

“What you've been through, both at Trask and at Headquarters, it can leave a mark on your mind,” John says. “It will, most likely. Dark thoughts, nightmares, flashbacks...it can take many shapes. Don't let it submerge you.”

“How do I do that?” Lauren asks.

“Talking about it helps. We don't exactly have mutant shrinks here, and I understand if talking to your parents is too hard, but I'll be here, alright? Whenever you need.”

“You have other things to think about.”

“I'll make time,” John says gravely. “This is important. Believe me when I say it's too easy get overwhelmed. I've been there.”

“Okay,” Lauren nods. “I understand.”

“Good. How's your brother doing?”

Lauren shakes her head. “I don't know. Andy's been pulling away ever since Trask. I can't even blame him, it was so...wrong, what happened there, but I don't know how to help him. He has all those ideas about our great-grandfather, about the Frosts−”

“Helping him isn't your job, Lauren. But he probably needs to talk to someone, too.”

“Mom keeps trying, but he won't talk to her. I get it, she's just so...worried all the time. It's stifling sometimes.”

“Other people's worry isn't always easy to handle,” John nods. “Especially from the people you love most.”

“It's just...I feel like I can't talk to my family anymore. Well, I mean, I guess I haven't really talked to them in years, since they didn't know I was a mutant, but...I hoped it would get better now that they know, but it's like they still don't understand.”

“Understand what?” John asks.

“This whole combined powers thing, it's so bizarre. It makes us different even from other mutants. The people here keep giving us looks since what we did, and I can tell they're afraid. I know I am. Having that much power...it scares me. What if we become like the Fenris twins?”

“It's not about the power, Lauren. The fact that you're asking yourself that already shows that this isn't in you. Power can be addictive, yes, but you know how to put out safeguards against it.”

“But still, isn't it dangerous to have people like me and Andy around?”

“That exactly what anti-mutants say, that mutants are a danger to everyone, especially those who have powers that can hurt other. But they're wrong.” John closes his eyes for a moment to ride out another wave of pain. “Our powers aren't what matters,” he continues. “What matters is how we decide to use them. I can kill people with my bare hands. Marcos can burn down a building, Lorna controls guns and knives, Clarice could probably cut someone in half with a portal. But in this country, any of us, any human, could also buy an assault rifle and kill dozens of people in a matter of minutes.”

“I see what you mean. What's important is what we choose to do with our mutation?”

“Yes. Your ancestor didn't kill people just because they has the ability to. To become that kind of monsters, they must have had other reasons. You're not a monster, Lauren.”

That seems to strike her deeply. She shakes her head and closes her eyes, as if to keep tears from escaping her eyes. John lets her take her time to compose herself.

“Wow,” she says. “I had no idea how much I needed to hear that.”

John nods with a smile. “Sometimes you need someone else to say it.”

“You ever felt that way?”

“My mutation was...hard to get control of,” John says. “For a long time, I was terrified of hurting people, of my own strength, of the things that I was seeing and hearing.”

“How did you get over it?”

“I met a man who told me many of the same things I've just told you. His name was Charles Xavier, but you'd know him as Professor X.”

“You knew the _creator_ of the X-Men?” Lauren asks in awe.

John smiles. “I was a student at the X-Mansion for a while. Lorna, too.”

“Wow, that was my dream when I was younger. We used to play the X-Men all the time with Andy.”

“You wanted to be a mutant?” John asks, amused.

“I don't think we ever realized what it means to be one, but yes. It sounded cool, I guess.”

“It can be. You haven't had much luck so far, but there are good moments, too. Being with other mutants, using our abilities together, it can be glorious. I hope you'll get to see better times. That's what we're all fighting for.”

“You're talking like you won't see it even if it happens,” Lauren remarks.

John blinks. “You're right, I am. I guess with all this,” he gestured toward his legs, “and losing Sonya, and Pulse, I'm just not as optimistic about making it out alive anymore. But you should be. You're young. You're the people we fight for. You and Lorna's baby. All the children.”

“So is that it? You're not gonna fight for yourself?”

John looks sharply at her, surprised by her boldness. But she's right. He can recognize that feeling, the depression always at the edge of his thoughts. It's getting stronger, and he can't let it win.

“I suspect I'll have to fight _with_ myself a lot in the coming months,” he says. “But I'm not giving up, if that's what you're asking.”

He's not sure why he's discussing this with a seventeen-year-old who came to him for reassurance, only that Lauren is probably the only one who's been fully straight with him. It's refreshing, not to be tiptoed around.

She nods, and they stay silent for a moment, each lost in their thoughts.

“What's going to happen now?” Lauren asks after a while.

“With the Underground? I don't know,” John says. “You were at the meeting. You know as much as I do.”

“And with everything else?”

“We can't really predict what the world with look like three, six months from now, let alone longer. As for you… What happened is going to change you, there's no way around it. But you already have a sense of who you are that hasn't been shaken by everything you've been through. You're incredibly strong, Lauren. You'll make it though this.”

She gives John a small smile, her eyes shining. “Thank you,” she says.

“You're very welcome,” John says. “And thank _you_. For saving everybody. Remember I'm here when you need to talk.”

“I will,” Lauren nods, standing up. “I hope you get better soon,” she adds timidly.

John watches her leave the room, lost in her thoughts but standing a little straighter.  He can only hope the seeds he's planted will grow in her mind and help her through this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter. I promise John is finally going to get out of bed soon, in the next chapter actually, and things will accelerate a bit from there.
> 
> Please tell me what you think!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this earlier, but...RL happened. Anyway, it's here. John finally gets out of bed, after 13 chapters of lying down.

“You managed to stay upright for several hours both yesterday and the day before,” Caitlin says. “So I think we could try to get you out of bed for a short while.”

“It...sounds good,” John hesitates. As much as it is a big, scary step, he's really tired of being stuck in bed. He eyes the wheelchair in the corner of the room, but he forces himself to stay on track and think only about today. Now is not the time to contemplate the future.

“Let's get you dressed a bit more first, alright?” Caitlin says.

John nods, and Caitlin turns away to rummage into the pile of second hand clothing Clarice brought in several days ago. He takes the moment to steel himself for what's coming.

The truth is that John is dreading this even more than he's looking forward to it. Until now, lying in a bed too weak to move, he's been able to avoid thinking too much about his legs. Not ignore them exactly, the pain and the spasms make sure he doesn't, but the paralysis hasn't felt completely real until now.

Observing, when he's just trying to move for the sake of moving, that his legs won't obey his commands is very different from trying to lift his foot to get it into a pant leg and not being able to. A movement his brain knows exactly how to do, without even thinking about it, and it's suddenly an impossible task.

Caitlin doesn't falter and manually shift his legs until they're each in the right pant leg, but John feels the blow full force. The sudden emotion is hard to swallow, harder even to hide. He bites back a sob and tries to pretend his eyes are shining because of the pain in his back−which is excruciating, as Caitlin makes him lift his upper body up to get the pants fully on.

The simple process of putting them on, even the largest pair of sweatpants they could find so it fits over his brace, leaves John already exhausted and panting. Caitlin gives him a moment to recover and he lies his head back against the pillows, discouraged.

“John,” Caitlin calls. He looks up at her. “It's going to be hard at first. But it will get better.”

“You don't know that,” John says. Beyond wondering whether he will regain his legs or not, he can't imagine living in this much pain forever.

“It will get better,” Caitlin promises. “I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but you've already improved at lot over the last few days.”

As the pain starts to recede, John lets himself believe her. While she gets the wheelchair from the corner of the room it's been sitting in, he pushes himself off the bed until he's sitting up properly, though the way his back is pulled straighter by the brace is highly uncomfortable. He can finally do this on his own, and it feels like more of an accomplishment than it really should.

Caitlin pushes the wheelchair up to the bed, at an angle, and bends down to put on the brakes.

“Alright, this is going to be a bit tricky. Transfers from a bed to a wheelchair aren't the easiest, and I can't help you as much I should.”

“I'm too heavy for you to carry,” John understands.

“This will be a good opportunity to test how much you've recovered from the blood loss. You have plenty of upper body strength, but we need to be careful. I don't want you to fall down.”

John is torn between hating that just getting out of bed takes so much work, so much precautions, and appreciating her way of going at it.

“I've used a wheelchair before,” he says.

“After you were injured in the Marines?”

“Yes. I couldn't really walk for a few weeks.”

Caitlin shakes her head. “But you had at least some range of motion in your legs then. This is going to be very different.”

John nods, trying to stay on track and not let his thoughts wander. He's gathered that, already.

“Let's try it,” he says.

“Okay. First, let's get your legs off the bed.”

John grimaces as his feet hit the floor uncontrollably, triggering more spasms in his back. He takes a few deep breaths and swallows before he looks up. The sight of his legs dangling inertly is going to take some getting used to.

“Alright, now you need to use your arms,” Caitlin says. “You don't have much core strength right now or mobility in your back with the brace, so it's all going to go on your shoulders.”

John nods. Caitlin understands that body training and learning to use the proper muscles is something he knows about.

“One hand on the seat, the other beside you on the bed. The chair won't move under you, don't worry. I'm here to catch you if you fall, but I'll only be able to slow you down, understand?”

“Okay,” John says, gingerly balancing on one arm to reach the chair with the other. He has regained some strength in his core muscles in the last few days, but not quite enough for his upper body to stay upright on its own. “Here goes nothing.”

It takes all the strength of his arms, lessened by blood loss and days of bed rest, to transfer to the wheelchair, but he makes it after only a few false starts. Seeing how out of breath he is, Caitlin gently places his legs on the footplate for him.

John feels the air on his bare feet, if not the cold. It's strange, the sensation dulled and different from what it was before. His whole legs don't feel things quite the same. “Could you get me some shoes?” he asks Caitlin.

It will give him a moment to breathe and get used to this away from her gaze. Caitlin clearly understands, because she doesn't even hesitate before she nods and turns away.

John shifts until he's as comfortable as he's going to get in the wheelchair−any sitting position is painful whatever he does. His brace barely allows him to bend down far enough to get the brakes off, but once he manages that, he feels strangely better. Freer.

He experimentally puts his hands on the rims and pushes himself a few feet forward. The move only pulls at his back marginally, not much more than just sitting. This is the first he's been out of bed in days, and despite his anxiousness, despite the knot in his throat, gaining even this much independence feels good.

Caitlin comes back with the boots he was wearing in Charlotte. “They're the only ones I could find,” she says.

“At least there's no blood on them,” John deadpans. He doesn't know what the others did with the clothes he was wearing that day, but he can't imagine that they were salvageable.

“True,” Caitlin says, extending the laces as far as they will go. She crouches down to put them on John's feet, and the process is all kinds of embarrassing and uncomfortable, but John feels better once his feet are no longer bare. More human. Fully dressed and moving.

John doesn't let himself wish he was standing, and demonstrates his proficiency with the wheelchair for Caitlin by moving forward and backward a few feet. He didn't lie saying he's used one before, though it never felt as definitive then. Never felt like something he needed to master for his own survival.

He's exhausted, but now that he's out of bed, the cabin fever is making itself known. “Can we get out of here?” he asks Caitlin.

“For a few minutes, if you want,” she answers. “There shouldn't be too many people in the main room right now, but−”

“I'm ready,” John says. He's not. At all. He's not ready to face the stares and the pity.

But is it going to be that much worse than the whispers that already leave him for dead?

Caitlin gets behind him to grab the handles of the chair.

“I can do this,” John says, annoyed.

He's a ball of tightly held-together complicated emotions right now, but annoyance is the one that passes his lips the easiest. He has no way to express the rest of it, the grief and the anger and the deep fear for what's to come, or even the strange freedom of finally moving.

“John, you're exhausted and in pain,” Caitlin says. “You can steer, but let me do the work today, okay?”

John sighs. “Fine,” he relents. He knows she's right. If he insists on wheeling himself, he won't last even a few minutes. He does put his hands on the push rims to keep that little bit of control, though.

He doesn't know what to expect when they pass the door into the main room. He's too wound up to truly enjoy finally being out of the same four walls. He feels strangely even more vulnerable now, exposed in the wheelchair, than he did stuck in bed. At least there he had some amount of control over who came into his room or not.

Nobody notices them at first. There are a few people going about their business in the room, but none of them look their way.

“John!” Clarice comes up to them as they make their way to the assembled tables on one side. “I'm so glad to see you up!”

John looks for it, but there's no dissonance in her tone or on her face, no hidden sadness. She's truly just glad. It will come later, maybe, or it never will, but he's grateful. Clarice just doesn't do pity, and he loves that about her.

“Hey,” he smiles tiredly. She slept in his room again, and they shared breakfast, but she hasn't been around since. There are a lot of things to arrange for the first group of mutants leaving for Baltimore in three days.

“How does it feel?”

John shrugs. “Good, I guess,” he says. The feelings are too mixed, too complex to give her more than that. Clarice seems to understand it, because she doesn't insist. She pulls up a chair instead and sits beside him.

It's nice not to have to look up to see her face.

“So how are the preparations going?” he asks quietly, if only to take his mind off the fact that he can feel people staring at him. No one currently in the room knows them well enough to approach, but John still feels self-conscious.

“We're almost done,” Clarice replies. “Fade and Pedro are taking the children, they should all fit into the bus. They'll have to sleep in there and it's going to be a bit cramped, but it's the best we can do.”

“Good,” John nods, hoping that she's not expecting valid input from him. Concentrating on anything but the pain is hard. He breathes deeply a few times, but it doesn't make the fire in his back calm down.

“Do you need to go back to bed?” Caitlin asks, confirming that he's not hiding it as well as he hoped. Clarice also has a worried look on her face.

“Not just yet,” John mutters.

They stay like this, Clarice slipping her hand into John's, for a while longer, but the conversation has died down and the atmosphere now feels heavy. John can't keep his mind from going straight to the things he'd rather avoid. He looks down at his legs, at the oversize sweatpants and the untied boots, and wills them to move−any kind of move−but there's still nothing. He knows he needs to believe Caitlin when she says the little progress he's made is good, that the rest will come later, but it's hard. It doesn't _feel_ like it.

Shaking himself out of the spiraling thoughts, he looks wistfully out the closest window. The one in his room is too high and too far from his bed to see much through it, but here he can see the street and even the branch of a tree, and he feels a sudden surge of longing.

“Can we go outside?” he asks.

Caitlin and Clarice exchange a look. “I think it's a bit early for that,” Caitlin says. “How about we do that tomorrow?”

John grunts, frustrated. His lack of mobility, of independence, is truly getting to him now. What felt earlier like a sliver of freedom now seems like impossible limitations. He closes his eyes to calm himself down and pinches the bridge of his nose.

He knows, intellectually, that this intense frustration mostly comes from tiredness. It's a child's reaction, and Caitlin precautions of speech, treating him like he has any kind on decision power in this, is grating on his nerves. It would be easier if she just gave him orders. He's used to obeying orders.

Then he wouldn't have to stop himself from hurting the person in front of him who is doing her best to help. He wouldn't have to feel guilty for reacting harshly.

Because all he wants to do right now is punch something. And even that is impossible. He'd just hurt himself further at this point.

“Look, you're an adult, I'm not going to force you to do or not do anything,” Caitlin says. “But you still need to get back into bed, and if you push yourself too much you could set back your recovery.”

“I know,” John growls. It doesn't make him any less angry. He loves Caitlin for treating him this well, but this feeling, the one he's starting to recognize as helplessness, makes his skin crawl. He takes the push rims and angrily wheels himself back, away from her, but the too sudden move nearly makes him scream in pain.

He grits his teeth against the worst back spasm he's had in hours, quickly spreading down his legs, but a groan still escapes him. “Dammit,” he mutters, doing his best to stay as still as possible.

“ John?” Clarice asks. In seconds she's crouching beside him, looking up at his face. John closes his eyes as he desperately tries to ride out the pain, his breaths coming  out in short gasps.

“ I'm okay,” he mutters when the spasm recedes enough for him to speak at all.  Clarice is still looking at him with concern and compassion, and he forces a small smile.

“Let's get you back to bed,” Caitlin says softly, taking the handles of his wheelchair. This time John doesn't resist. He's too exhausted to do anything but sit there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter. It's a bit different in tone than the previous ones, focusing on John rather than the larger world.
> 
> With the cancellation and...other stuff, my plans for this story have changed a little, but I'll explain later on. For now, there should only be 2-3 more chapters in this part, and I don't know when the sequel will come.
> 
> Please let me know if you're still reading and you enjoy it!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me longer than I hoped to write this, but here's a new chapter, finally.

On the second day, John manages to stay up quite a bit longer. Clarice is there this time while Caitlin helps him into the wheelchair− _his_ wheelchair still sounds too definitive.

She watches John struggle to get his feet up on the chair's footplate, and she's overwhelmed with compassion. She's careful not to make a noise, looking away until the tears in her eyes are gone. John doesn't need to see it. He has enough to deal with as it is.

He wheels himself slowly to her side once he's situated. Caitlin gets the obvious message and turns away, with only an admonition not to stay up for too long and to call her if he needs help. John nods at her impatiently.

“May I−” Clarice asks, gesturing to his chair.

“Sure,” John says after a slight hesitation. Clarice can tell he'd rather push himself, but he's probably in too much pain to keep it up for long. She moves behind him and takes the handles of the wheelchair.

The main room is more crowded than yesterday, and Clarice can feel the stares. She knows people mean well, that they're just curious and sympathizing, but John tenses uncomfortably.

“Ignore them,” she says in his ears, bending closer to his level. “Where to?”

“I want to go outside,” John says. “I'm tired of being cooped up.”

Clarice remembers that John hasn't been out of his room except for a short time yesterday, so he doesn't know this place. She bites her lip and moves around the wheelchair so he can see her.

“There a small courtyard,” she says. “That's where we go when we need air, because it's too dangerous to go out on the street side, we can't afford to be seen. But...it has a couple of steps.”

John opens his mouth, and closes it again, as if struck.

“I hadn't even considered that yet,” he says after a moment. “Stairs.”

“Yeah,” Clarice says with compassion.

“So I'm stuck here.”

“The front side has a car entrance, but−”

“No,” John sighs. “You're right, safety comes first.”

Clarice nods sadly. She can't imagine what it must be like for him, but she'll do her goddamn best to make it the easiest it can be. Which gives her an idea, actually.

“There may be another way,” she says.

“Yes?”

“I could...portal you out.” John opens his mouth, but she anticipates his argument. “I can make my portals reach the floor, I did it with a car once, remember?”

“I remember. But you had some...help,” John remarks.

“Yeah, but I've been getting better. I portalled you in and out of the car the other day, you weren't really conscious, but it was more precise than anything I'd done before.”

“Okay,” John says. “We could...try.”

The yearning in his voice is almost painful, for something so small.

“The courtyard is over there,” Clarice points to the door, so he's not too disoriented. She has a constant sense of direction and distance across space, but not everyone does.

“I guessed,” John says.

Clarice tries to listen, but she can't hear anything from the direction of the courtyard. Of course John would, though. Shaking her head, she concentrates and holds out her hands.

“You okay to go through on your own?” she asks, when the portal reaches her size.

She's placed herself opposite him on purpose, so he can go through the other side of the portal and doesn't have to go around her, but it means she can't see his face when he answers.

“Yeah. I think.”

Clarice almost falters at the rare admission of uncertainty. She shakes herself and focuses on holding the portal, checking that it reaches through the floor. “Then go,” she says.

“I'm through,” John says after a moment, as she still can't see him. Clarice steps through the portal as well and lets it blink out.

John is sitting three feet behind her, smiling a little as the sunlight reaches his face. “This is nice,” he says.

Clarice thinks, offhandedly, that this is the first real smile she's seen on his face since Charlotte. Since they kissed.

She grabs a chair from the roofed part of the courtyard, and places it beside John to sit with him. He's right, the last rays of fall sun on her face feel incredible, when she takes the time to enjoy the moment.

It doesn't last long. Clarice opens her eyes again when John shifts and tries to sit up straighter with a grimace.

“You can come closer,” he says, looking behind Clarice. She turns her head around to see Lauren and Andy, shyly standing by the door. They look at John sheepishly, embarrassed to have been caught staring.

“We don't want to bother you,” Lauren says, bolder than her brother who looks away.

“You're not. How are you two doing?”

“Shouldn't we be the ones asking you that?” Andy asks quietly. He's not looking at John, but he seems genuinely concerned.

“I'm out here, and that's a definite improvement,” John smiles. “I'll be alright.”

“We're glad,” Lauren says.

“So, what are you guys doing?” Clarice asks casually.

“We're trying to help with the preparations anyway we can,” Lauren answers. She looks around and adds in a lower voice, “People are still giving us a wide berth, but I think they're finally coming to terms with what we did.”

“You saved them all,” Clarice points out.

“We also destroyed their home,” Lauren sighs.

Andy looks at John, in the eyes this time. “Do you blame us for that?” he asks.

“Of course not,” John exclaims. Clarice can see him immediately beat himself up for not clearing that up earlier. Not that he could have, since Andy hasn't set foot in his room since the night they came back from Charlotte. He pulls off the brakes of his chair to turn it fully toward Andy and Lauren, badly hiding a wince.

“Listen,” he says. “The bank was our home, yes, but it was never meant to be permanent. We all slept with our clothes and even our shoes on to be ready to evacuate at any moment. Everyone knew that. That's why we never tried to repair or cover up the hole in the first floor. So we'd never forget that it was a refuge, a squat, not a true home.”

“I wondered, about the hole,” Lauren says.

“A mutant kid did this, years ago. He lived in an orphanage down the road, and he lost control of his powers.”

“Did he−”

“He died,” John says. “We may have lost our home, but we didn't lose any of our people, and that's thanks to you. Don't ever forget that.”

Lauren nods. Andy still looks hesitant, but he doesn't say anything.

“Do you know yet where you'll be going, once we get to D.C.?” John asks.

“Not yet. Mom and Dad keep arguing about it, but they won't let us give our input.”

“What do _you_ want?”

“We want to fight.,” Lauren says without hesitation. “We don't agree on many things right now, but we're sure of that.”

“Yeah,” Andy nods. “What happened at the Trask labs, and at the station, it changed everything.”

“More than going on the run?” Clarice asks.

“We were children,” Lauren says. “We were lost and scared and running away. Now we have something to fight _for_.”

“What Lorna did−” Andy hesitates. “Maybe it wasn't legal, or even right, but it showed me that we can't just do nothing and wait for things to get better. Because they never will.”

“Andy, don't talk like that!”

All heads whip up toward Caitlin, who comes closer. Only John doesn't look surprised, and Clarice wonders how long she's been here without any of them noticing. And if John let her listen to her children on purpose.

“What, Mom? I'm only telling the truth.”

“We want to go with them to D.C. and make a difference,” Lauren backs up her brother, taking advantage of her mother finally listening to make their position clear.

“It's not our place,” Caitlin says. “We're not fighters. You two are still children, and your father and I−”

“We were old enough to be pulled into this whether we wanted it or not,” Lauren says. “We should do what, hide away for the rest of our lives?”

“That's not what I'm saying, things may get better, we could get back to a normal life−”

“Mom, you still don't understand? This is our lives. If we want things to get better, we're gonna have to fight for it.”

“There are other ways to help change things.”

“By doing what?” Andy opposes. “Writing letters to politicians? It's not enough! The Hounds that we killed, they had families. They were taken away from them and turned into...” he trails off. “It could have been us, too, if you hadn't got us out. I want to fight so that never happens again. To anyone.”

“Campbell's dead,” Caitlin says. “The Hound program is gone.”

“How long until someone else takes over?” Lauren asks.

Caitlin almost automatically looks over to John and Clarice for support, and immediately looks guilty. Clarice shrugs at her grimace. She's voluntarily stayed sitting by John while the three Struckers argued standing up, getting closer to them, and now they're nearly towering over her and John, whose hands are hovering over the push rims of his chair. He doesn't look like he's in any mood or state to support Caitlin's argument right now.

“Sorry,” Caitlin says quietly. “We shouldn't be arguing about this right now.”

“I think you should at least listen to what your children have to say,” John says, his posture still tense. “But it's a family matter. I'm not going to take sides.”

“Of course,” Caitlin nods, though she looks a bit put out. “You've been out her for a while. Do you need to go back inside to rest?”

John's distaste at her using his health to change the subject is obvious. “I'm fine,” he growls. Clarice can see the lines of pain on his face, but she doesn't comment, sensing that it would be a bad move.

“Okay,” Caitlin backs off. “Kids, I think it would be a good time to go back to work.”

Clarice has to bite back a smile when, in perfect unison, Lauren and Andy glower at their mother. They give John and her each their own version of a sheepish smile and a wave and turn to go back inside.

“Caitlin,” Clarice calls softly, standing up, before the woman can leave as well. She takes her aside slightly, though her gaze never leaves John in case he needs her help.

“What?” Caitlin almost snaps.

“You're exhausted.”

“I'm fine.”

“Caitlin, the first thing you told me the day after we got back was that if I wanted to help John, I needed to think about myself too. I'm just returning the advice. You can't treat John _and_ worry about your children _and_ basically be a mom to everyone here. It's too much.”

“What am I supposed to do, Clarice?” Caitlin glares at her. “Forget about my children? Or leave John on his own?”

“Just take a break,” Clarice says. “I can help John for a while and relieve you. You need sleep.”

Caitlin deflates, running a hand through her hair. “I guess I do. I won't sleep in the middle of the day, though. But thank you for the offer.”

“Whenever you need, okay? I'm here.”

Clarice worries at her lip, watching Caitlin walk away. Maybe it's a good thing that people will start leaving the day after tomorrow. Everyone here is too worried, under too much pressure, and tensions are running high. She can feel it, too, the tiredness creeping up on her. She yawns, and after checking that John isn't yet ready to go back inside, she brings her chair closer to him and gently lays her head on his shoulder. With a sigh, John leans back against her.

 

John hears Marcos and Lorna coming long before they step through the door to the courtyard. He knows the pattern of their footsteps by heart, the scent of their skin, he can even tell that they're more comfortable with each other than they've been in a long time. Perhaps since Lorna got arrested.

They're all patching things up, slowly. John worries, in his darkest moments, that his friends will leave him behind once they've found their footing again, and they realize that John is nothing but a burden on them. He knows them well enough to believe it won't happen, but sometimes no rational thought can get through the thick fog of pain and fear in his brain.

But today is much better than yesterday. Despite getting up for the first time, and how good it felt at first to get out of the cramped room he's spent too much time in, John spent the rest of the day moping. It's hard to see a future, when he can't get thirty feet from his bed without nearly passing out from the pain. When his legs won't budge an inch despite putting all his effort in moving them.

Today he can feel the sun on his face, the very light gush of wind that reaches even into the enclaved courtyard, and he's made it this far without more pain than he can handle. Today reminds him more of the weeks after his first injury, of Pulse bringing him home and taking care of him until he could stand on his own two feet again. It's not good memories, not really, not when it also reminds him of the IED that took out his unit, but it tastes a little bit like hope.

He straightens up, as a warning to Clarice who removes her head from his shoulder, just before Lorna slams the door to the courtyard open.

“John! You're up!” Lorna says enthusiastically when she sees him. “We looked for you in your room, but you weren't there.”

“Yeah,” John smiles tiredly.

Marcos approaches more carefully. They still haven't really talked, and he keeps walking on eggshells. John understands. He really does, he has no idea how he would react if Marcos was in his position, but he doubt he would be taking it well. They're all handling things their own way, and Marcos's way just translates as being careful and pessimistic.

“Marcos,” John nods, with a smile he knows must look tired and pained. He's tired, and he's in pain. There's nothing to do about that, and he's not asking his friends to pretend it's not the case.

“John. I'm glad you're up.”

“Me too,” John nods. It's still stilted and awkward. This is ridiculous. They're best friends, they should be able to be honest and comfortable with each other.

Lorna chooses the right move by dragging two more chairs over, even though John is starting to really feel the pull in his back from being upright. He can stay for a little while longer, to make things right with Marcos.

Having him at eye level makes him feel much better. Lorna doesn't sit down, and signals to Clarice semi-discreetly to move a little further, to give the two men some privacy. John give her a small thankful smile, though Marcos looks suddenly lost.

“Listen, brother,” he says when Marcos clearly won't make the first move. “I snapped at you the other day and I'm sorry about that.”

“No, John, it's fine! You're allowed to−”

John holds up a hand to stop him. “It doesn't matter. What matters is that we need to stick together, more than ever before. And you won't even look at me.”

Marcos does meet his eyes, briefly, in shock. “That's not true−”

“Isn't it? I can see it, Marcos. I may be injured, but it doesn't mean I'm oblivious to everything that's going on.”

“I just… You're right, I'm being ridiculous,” Marcos finally caves in. “I don't know what to do, and how to act. I'm trying to avoid making it harder on you, but I'm only making it worse.”

“If not making it harder on me means avoiding me, then yes. Things are...hard right now, I'm not going to lie. And not having my best friend to help me through it is not what I pictured,” John says sadly. He doesn't know if Marcos can see the shadows of those they've lost as clearly as he does right now, but he feels the knot in his throat. He misses Pulse and Sonya deeply.

“I'm sorry,” Marcos sighs. “I want to be there for you. I just don't know how.”

“We're all figuring it out as we go. Maybe start by acting normally around me and not like I'm made of porcelain.”

Marcos lets out a small laugh. “I'll try. I'll get my head out of my ass eventually.”

“Good.”

The matter is not really over, John knows, and Marcos is still hesitant and careful, but nothing gets fully resolved these days, not with everything they have going on. The future is too muddled for that. It's okay. John can live with it.

He looks over at the girls, ready to signal them to come back, but he's taken by a bad spasm and he has to bite his tongue hard to stop himself from making a sound. The taste of blood comes to his mouth.

“John?” Marcos calls, concerned.

John breathes out through his nose and shakes his head.

“I'm okay,” he says when he feels he can speak again.

“Do you need to go lie down?” Clarice asks, walking back to him.

“Probably,” John answers sheepishly. It's still hard to battle his instinct to hide his pain and carry on, but he knows overdoing things could do actual harm.

“Let's go, then. Should I portal you all the way to your room?”

John nods. “Please.”

“One portal coming up,” Clarice chirps, more cheerfully than she probably feels.

“ Thank you,” John smiles tiredly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. There should be one more, possibly two if it grows too much (okay, count on two, you know me by now) until the end of this story. 
> 
> Please tell me what you thought!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second to last chapter, so we're truly getting to the end of this story. I hope you enjoy it!

John has been back in his room for a while when there is a knock on his door. Clarice has gone out to get them both some lunch, and this doesn't sound like her. John closes his eyes briefly to let his other senses give him an image. Shatter.

He shakes his head in discomfort immediately. He's been hesitant to stretch his reach since his injury, because letting his senses take over means opening his mind wide to the pain. Even just a small distance like this raises his pain baseline tenfold.

He does his best to straighten up against his pillows and calls out, “Come in!”

“I want to do it,” Shatter says, without introduction, closing the door again behind him. He's always been the kind of person to go straight to the point, to avoid wasting anyone's time.

“Baltimore?” John asks.

“Yes. I can lead the station. I know Magma, we should work well together. Pedro will second us.”

“Good,” John nods.

He almost expects Shatter to turn around and leave right away, since he's said what he's come here to say. But the man opens his mouth, hesitating.

“Go ahead,” John says, knowing what's coming.

“How are you really doing, John?”

_I'm fine_ won't cut it, John knows. Shatter is a good friend. John has no wish to lie to him, however much he wants to shy away from everyone's pity.

“It's...not easy,” he settles for. “I wish I could be of more use.”

“None of us expect that of you,” Shatter says.

“I know. I just feel pretty helpless right now.”

“Is there any...improvement?”

“Caitlin says so, though it doesn't feel like it. I still can't move at all.”

“How does that feel?”

“Weird. Scary,” John answers honestly. “Losing control of your own body is one hell of an experience.”

“I can't exactly say that I know something about that, but−”

“But you and I have more experience of this more than most people here,” John acknowledges. “You told me your story. I told you mine. And yet...this is different from manifesting uncontrollable powers, even the way we did.”

There's the same sense of helplessness, the same fear that things will never get better, though. John hadn't consciously drawn the parallel until now, but there are glaring similarities to the months he spent shying away from all sensory input, at the hospital and then at Xavier's school.  This loss of self that Shatter also talks about, waking up one day in the body of a stranger−a monster,  to him, to everyone then .

P erhaps the difference is in other people's eyes. Mutants are seen and treated, too often, as monsters. Especially those who look like Shatter, or who hear voices and see things that aren't there, like John. What John is now,  _disabled_ −and this is the first time he's even thought the word,−is to be pitied and grieved for. And right now, to John, who is long used to being hated for being a mutant, and for being Apache, it feels so much worse.

He shakes his head to get rid of the unproductive thoughts and signals Shatter to sit down. The man starts to refuse, but he seems to understand that it would be much more comfortable to John not to have to look up to see him.

“Anything I should know about leading a station?” Shatter asks, taking the obvious hint to change the subject.

“You'll figure it out,” John says. “The trick is to try to listen to everyone, even if what they have to say doesn't seem important right then. You need to know what those people feel and think, not just the practical help they can provide.”

“You're good at this,” Shatter says. “Taking care of everyone without us even noticing how much work you put into it.”

“I've had a lot of help.”

Shatter shakes his head. “Each of us is good at one thing, and you've always known how to play our strength. I mean, Lorna is a good battle leader, but she doesn't handle the day-to-day, you do that.”

“I _did_ that,” John amends. “Now it's your turn.”

“This...injury won't stop you from being who you are.”

“Maybe not. But where we're going, there won't be a station anymore. Since I got ours destroyed.”

Shatter closes his eyes in dismay. “ You're not responsible for that, John. We all played our part, but the ones who did it are the Sentinel Services, and that asshole Turner. Not you.”

John looks away. “I hope you do better than me,” he says.

“You did the best you could with what you were given,” Shatter sighs. “And you've paid a heavy price. I don't just mean...this,” he nods to John's legs.

“You mean Pulse,” John says. “And Sonya.”

“Yes.”

“Believe me, I miss them every day.”

“You never want to just...give up? Stop fighting?”

John laughs, more bitterly than he means to. “It's funny, Clarice asked me the same thing recently.”

“What did you tell her?”

_What we do here, it's important to me. But everybody finds their own reason to stay._

It hasn't been a month, but it feels like a lifetime ago. So many things have changed. Have his motives changed too?

“That I think about it all the time,” he answers. “But I don't give up.”

“Why?”

John shrugs. “Someone needs to do this work, right?”

Shatter opens his mouth to say something−John doesn't know if it's going to be along the lines of _might as well be us_ or rather _it doesn't have to be you_ −when Clarice knocks on the door and comes in, carrying a tray.

“Oh, sorry,” she says. “Do you need a minute?”

“You can come in,” John answers.

Shatter doesn't say what he was about to, recognizing John's wish to end this discussion. John has had a version of it with many people, Marcos and Lorna most often of all. It used to be Pulse, though, who chided him for his self-sacrificing streak−Pulse who was never supposed to be the first to die.

“Hi, Shatter,” Clarice says. “Are the preparations going alright? You know I'm here if you need help.”

“I think we're good, and you have plenty to do already,” Shatter answers. “We still need to figure out the route,” he adds, looking at John.

“Come back with Sage's laptop and we can have a look later,” John says.

“I didn't want to ask you, but you're really the best at this.”

“It's fine. I'll be useful for _something_ , at least.”

“John−” Clarice starts.

“I know, I need to focus on recovering, no one's expecting me to help,” John rolls his eyes. “I'm getting really tired of hearing that. I won't exert myself, I promise.”

Clarice bites her lip. She and Shatter exchange a look, and Shatter nods and turns back to John.

“I'll be back in a couple of hours with the laptop,” he says, before leaving the room.

“Guess I just made someone else run away,” John mutters.

He hates the mood he's in, but Clarice's annoyed tone at his self-deprecation, on top of the heavy conversation with Shatter, just pushed him over the edge.

“John, did something happen?” Clarice asks, putting down her tray on a crate.

“Nothing new. Marcos can still barely look at me, even though he promised to be better, everyone is muttering about me out there, and not a single person is treating me like I can make my own decisions.”

He knows it's not fair before it even goes past his lips, and the sudden dismayed look on Clarice's face is much harder to bear than her annoyance.

“Sorry,” he says, looking down.

“Do you really feel that I'm treating you like a child?” Clarice asks quietly.

“No,” John sighs. “I know you're just worried. But it's hard to be so...limited.”

“I can only imagine what you're going through. I'm not saying that just to sympathize, I'm probably overstepping boundaries without realizing it, and I want you to tell me when that happens. You're right, I have no right to berate you for feeling down or saying things like that.”

John closes his eyes, in something like relief. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “Not that I want to be irritating, but−”

“But you shouldn't have to pretend to be okay all the time so we don't worry about you. It's too easy to fall into that trap, I can feel myself checking on you all the time just to comfort myself but...it's not fair to you.”

“I can't believe how perceptive you are sometimes,” John says. “And accepting. You've been taking all this in stride, when we barely knew each other before all this...”

“You know, maybe it's because we didn't know each other that well,” Clarice says. “Marcos and Lorna and the others probably can't help comparing this to the you that they've known for years, and it's hard to adjust, especially as you're adjusting yourself. But I don't have a lot to compare with, and you're not really different from a month ago, so I can just...live in the moment. I don't keep worrying about what it means for the future, or how I'm supposed to act around you.”

“Everything is so weird with everyone else,” John sighs. “I know it's because they're afraid of putting their foot in their mouth, and it's only been a few days, but I just want to move forward.”

“I know. I'm sure it will even out. Maybe it will be easier with fewer people here.”

“Yeah. I'm really glad you're here, you know?”

“I'm glad I'm here, too,” Clarice smiles, putting her hand on John's. “I'm glad we're together.”

John smiles back. They still need to have a real conversation about Clarice coming to D.C., but for now he'll take her tenderness and her efforts at normalcy. He needs it too badly to reject it.

“Come here,” he says, opening his arms.

Clarice sits on the edge of the bed and bends down to kiss him. John buries his hand in her hair, glad that he can finally kiss her back without it triggering unbearable pain. With her in his arms, for a minute, he can forget almost everything else.

 

“Something's different,” John says the next morning, trying to stay still as Caitlin tends to his back. Clarice has gone out to give them some privacy, and it's just the two of them in the room.

“What do you mean?”

“You look...rested.”

“Well, thank you,” Caitlin snorts. “Clarice made me realize that I was driving myself into the ground trying to be on top of everything.”

“And it was enough to get you to sleep? If I'd known, I'd have told you that days ago,” John says with a smirk.

“I may have added some sleeping pills to my herbal tea last night,” Caitlin snorts.

“Right. So how are things with your children?”

Caitlin shrugs. “I think we're all still trying to process what happened. Lauren seems determined, but I can see her waver when she thinks we're not looking. And Andy is pulling away from everyone one minute, and looking for comfort the next. I don't know what to make of them, to be honest.”

“They've been through a lot. But you're all together. You're here for them. That's important.”

“It is, but...I just wish I could make it all go away, sometimes.”

John nods sadly. “We all do the best we can with what we have.”

“We still need to decide what we're going to do.”

“What do _you_ want?”

“I don't know,” Caitlin says. “I want my children to be safe above all, but Reed and I also want to fight for their future, and they've made their own opinion quite clear.”

“You said it yourself, there are many ways to fight,” Johns says. “If you do stay in D.C. with us, it's not going to be the same as in Atlanta. We'll have to find our place in the Underground over there, and we might end up doing very different things. Both you and Reed have skills we could really use that don't involve all-out fights.”

“But what about the children? Their lives have been turned over in the last few months. They need some kind of stability.”

“You could find that in Baltimore, maybe even in D.C. And if that's what you want, from there we can get you out of the country, to Canada. The situation is only marginally better there, but with new identities you wouldn't be fugitives. Lauren and Andy would have to hide their powers, of course, but−”

“But isn't that what we're fighting for?” Caitlin interrupts him. “A world where they, where _you_ don't have to hide? How can we ask our children to deny part of their identity?”

John bites his lip. He doesn't know whether to feel proud that Caitlin finally, truly understands that, or dismayed that he doesn't have a solution to offer her.

“You can't,” he says. “Even if you try it will come out eventually. But if you feel that their safety is more important, and I understand that, it could at least buy you time.”

“I'm not sure it's worth the damage it would do to them,” Caitlin says, almost to herself. John doesn't comment. He agrees wholeheartedly, but this isn't a realization he can force on her.

“I won't be redressing your wounds, they're healed enough to go without,” Caitlin says after a while, finishing tending to John's back. “Do they still hurt?”

“I can feel the scarring happening,” John answers, “but mostly they're just itchy. I told you my body heals fast. I just wish my spine would do the same.”

“You've made a lot of progress already,” Caitlin states.

“You know what I mean.”

“Of course. I wish I could tell you more.”

“Caitlin, you're not a doctor, and my metabolism is probably unique anyway. We just have to wait and see.”

“You know I'm the one who's supposed to tell you that, right?”

John laughs softly. “I've learned my lesson well.”

“You're a very good patient, you know? With everything you have going on, anyone else would have crumbled by now.”

“You don't live long as a mutant in the Marines if you don't learn to adapt to pretty much anything,” John shrugs. “Believe it or not, this is not the worst thing that's ever happened to me, although it may be the most...permanent.”

“I don't even know what to say to that,” Caitlin sighs. John thinks suddenly that it may not have been the most sensitive thing to say to her. She hasn't seen all that much of what living as a mutant is like, and she's still getting used to the idea of what awaits her children.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “Didn't mean to get weird on you. You have a lot on your plate too.”

“I guess it comes with the territory, trying to raise teenagers.”

“It gets more complicated when those teenagers are mutants running from the authorities, doesn't it?”

“Tell me about it,” Caitlin snorts.

“We've all more or less been those teenagers,” John says. “So we can relate to Lauren and Andy. But none of us have ever been in _your_ situation, and few had parents who cared like you do. You need to make your own decisions as a family, and we can't interfere.”

“You're right, it's hard. There's no easy choice here, no obvious right path. Anything we do is going to be dangerous, and difficult, and it's hard to come to terms with that.”

“I understand that,” John says. “Take your time. You can always go back on any decision you make, we won't hold it against you.”

“Thank you,” Caitlin murmurs.

John carefully sits up, helping himself with his arms. “Okay, time to start the day. Help me up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter is already written, since it was really just one chapter that I had to cut in half for length. So you won't have to wait long, it should be up sometime next week.
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter, please tell me what you think!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here comes the last chapter.

Lorna spots John sitting by the large table in the early afternoon. She's surprised that Clarice is nowhere to be seen−which explains why he's not outside in the courtyard. Caitlin is over by the place she and her family usually sleep, but Lorna can see her periodically check on John. He probably needs the independence, she thinks.

“We need to talk,” she says, sitting down on a crate beside him.

“Yes?” John looks over at her.

“I feel like we're pulling away from each other.”

John blinks. “Lorna−”

“I know, I'm the one who almost left,” Lorna says, raising her hands in a peace offering. “You have every right to be angry.”

“I'm not angry. You want to build a world that your baby can live in, and I can only respect that, even if I don't agree with the methods. But what you did in Charlotte−it's not just the plane, you put us in an impossible situation. And now...I'm not the one who's pulling away, Lorna.”

“We've barely talked since the other day.”

“Lorna, I can't fucking move!” John heats up, the uncharacteristic swear surprising Lorna more than his outburst. “You want to talk to me, you'll have to make an effort!”

“That's what I'm doing!”

“By accusing me of pulling away? You're doing a real good job here!”

“Look, I know you have a lot on your plate right now, but−”

John raises a hand, and Lorna stops short. “You know what? I'm not doing this right now,” he says, his face set. “I can't have you all treat me like I'm fragile _and_ still expect me to carry on like nothing happened. I need some space.”

He pulls off the brakes of his wheelchair, starting to wheel himself away.

Lorna takes a step toward him. “John−” She raises a hand almost unconsciously, pulling on the metal. The wheelchair stops in its tracks, and John with it.

John turns to look at her, awkwardly as she's standing almost behind him. The heat in his glare is like a punch in Lorna's gut. Shocked, she releases her hold immediately, letting her hand fall back to her side.

John pulls on his wheels until Lorna's not towering over him anymore, and looks her in the eye.

“Don't _ever_ do that again,” he says, hammering in every word.

Lorna blinks at the anger in his tone, but when she sees the way he's holding his push rims, clearly trying hard not to damage them but very nearly failing, she swallows.

These wheels are John's independence, now. They're his freedom. She wouldn't have used her powers to trap him if he was walking. She did it because she can feel the wheelchair at the edge of her consciousness all the time and it was _easy_. An easy way to stop him, since he can't escape it.

And that's exactly why it's wrong.

“I'm sorry,” she says, opening her hands in a gesture of peace. “I won't.”

They stare at each other for a moment more. Lorna tries to make the genuineness of her apology clear in her face, but she's not sure she succeeds.

John sighs. “We do need to talk,” he says. “But I can't do it like this. At least let me get back to bed.”

“Of course,” Lorna nods. “Do you want help with that?”

John hesitates, sizing her up. “I could use some, yes,” he eventually answers.

After his outburst, Lorna fully expected him to rebuke her, though she felt she had to ask. She nods, surprised, and follows him slowly back to his room. She doesn't offer to push him, though she can see he's struggling to go even at a snail's pace.

“Can you close the door?” he asks once they're inside.

Lorna obeys without a word. She watches John as he aligns his chair with the bed and pulls on the brakes, then stops moving. It takes her a moment to figure out that he's bracing himself for what's next. She doesn't dare try to anticipate his needs or offer more help−this is too far out of her competence.

Taking a deep breath, John manually removes his legs from the footplate and levers himself with one hand on the bed and the other on the seat of his chair. Lorna watches in fascination. He seems already proficient at this, after just a couple of days, though he can't hide the wince on his face.

John lies back on the pillow, barely bothering to get his legs on the bed fully, shoes still on. He's breathing harshly, almost wheezing, and Lorna approaches with concern.

“You okay?”

“Spasm,” John rasps out. “Gimme...a moment.”

Lorna tries to take his hand, but he goes rigid the moment she touches him. She's seen him do that before, during really bad migraines: he's stilling himself to avoid hurting her inadvertently. She removes her hand straight away, putting it on his shoulder instead.

John's breathing doesn't start to even out for at least a minute. By then, Lorna is close to crying, and John is beyond that. He doesn't try to hide the pain on his face, or the tears coming down his cheeks. Lorna doesn't think he could.

“Dammit,” he mutters under his breath, but his tone is more resigned than angry.

When the spasm finally recedes, and John goes slack against his pillows, exhausted, he opens his eyes and looks at her.

He wanted her to see this, she understands. He didn't really need her help, beside having someone here in case he made a wrong move and fell. But he wanted her to see what he's really dealing with.

Seeing John in the wheelchair, moving more or less independently, it felt like things had gotten better, like suddenly her best friend wasn't paralyzed anymore. John's right, she thoughtlessly acted like they could carry on just like before.

She hasn't been here to see how hard this really is on him. The only times she's come into his room, bar that one heartfelt conversation they had a few days ago, he's always put on a good face and hidden the struggles.

“You remember when it was just the two of us?” she asks. The real question is her mind is why? Why hasn't she been here for him? What drove them apart so far that she forgot how close they used to be?

“When we stepped on each other's toes and bounced our frustration around in a tiny motel room?” John asks dryly in return.

“I was thinking of after, when we rehabilitated the bank. But yeah, then too. We took care of each other, then. What happened to us?”

John sighs, looking down. “Pulse. Sonya. You going to jail. We just...lost too much.”

“But we're still friends, right?” Lorna hates how tiny her voice sounds.

“You will always be my friend, Lorna. Whatever happens, I'll never stop loving you. Come here.”

Lorna comes closer, sitting down carefully on the edge of the bed. John opens his arms, and she leans into them, hugging him back tightly. She can feel the brace around his torso, even harder than the rest of him, the metal buzzing with energy only she can perceive. But she can also feel John's warmth, the tenseness of his shoulders, how hesitant and doubting each of his moves is. John holds her for a moment, then pushes her back until they can look at each other.

“This will never change. What I hope is that we can survive this war as a team. Together.”

Lorna meets his eyes, her thoughts going to Marcos, to the people they love here. To Sonya, and all those who aren't here anymore. To the baby to come inside her.

“I want that too,” she murmurs.

 

“We haven't really talked about you coming to D.C. with us,” John says to Clarice later, in the evening, when she unrolls the blankets she's been using as a mattress. She never stopped sleeping in John's room, even though they haven't talked about that, either. It was justified at first because he needed someone to check on him regularly, but it's been a few nights since that has been necessary.

“What about it?” Clarice asks, turning to him. She drops her pillow on the makeshift bed and sits down onto it, bringing her head to the level of John's face. He's lying down fully to relieve the pressure on his back, after spending too long sitting up and moving today. Clarice can see the lines of pain on his face, but he hasn't complained once. She still doesn't know how he manages to do this without the aid of painkillers.

“Whatever this is between us, it's still very new, and now _this_ happened−” John nods to his legs. “You shouldn't be throwing away everything just to follow me.”

“John, I literally have nothing to throw away,” Clarice says. She tries to keep her tone light, but it just comes out weird. It's true, though. She came to the Underground with nothing. Now she has friends, and someone she wants to call more-than-a-friend though it's still hesitant, and she won't leave them behind.

“What we do is dangerous. If you do come, it can't be just for us. We don't even know where that's going, and with everything going on, I probably won't have time for the kind of relationship you deserve−”

“The kind of relationship _I_ deserve? What about you?”

John shrugs. “I might not walk again. I have baggage a mile long and two dead exes.” He stops at that to cough, but Clarice can tell it's hiding a strong emotion. “Do you really want to commit to someone like that?”

“I really hope you're not implying that disabled or grieving people don't deserve good relationships,” Clarice states, purposefully being flippant.

John rolls his eyes and sighs. “You know I'm not.”

“No, only when it applies to you. How many times do I have to repeat that I want this, that you're not somehow coercing me into loving you?”

“You−” John blinks, looking a bit like a fish out of water.

“I want this,” Clarice repeats. “I love you.”

It's the first time she's said it out loud. She's been catching herself thinking it for a few days, but she never said the words. John opens his mouth and closes it, struggling to find an answer.

“You don't need to say it back,” Clarice murmurs. “I know you don't have the space in your head to figure this out right now, and it's okay.”

“Thank you,” John murmurs back. His look seems to try to convey too many feelings at once, and Clarice is pretty sure there's an _I love you too but I'm not ready to say it_ in there. It's enough for her−for now.

“But to answer your question, it's not just about us,” Clarice says. “I tried to bail on you once, and you got me to come back. I thought I only wanted to get back at the Sentinel Services for what they did to my foster parents, but it's not even about that anymore.”

“Then what is it about?”

“It's about...all of us. It's about Sonya, and you, and Lauren and Andy and Lorna's kid. It's me realizing that I don't want to keep running, I want to make a difference. I want to help.”

“What changed? Since that day you came back, I mean. I can see it in you, but...”

“Everything changed. You remember when you told me that everyone finds their own reasons to stay? I thought that was mine. I thought justice, or revenge really, was as good a reason as any. I realized it wasn't when I was in cell at Trask.”

“Shouldn't that have made you run away?”

“It wasn't being captured, John. Or even feeling a gun pointed at me. I've been there before, and I probably will again. It was...when Campbell killed Sonya in front of me, and they took me back to stare at her empty cell, all I could think about was that it should have been me. Sonya was such a big part of the station, and she was so important to many people, to you, and I'm just a stranger with no one to mourn for me, but she's the one who sacrificed herself.”

“Don't say that, Clarice. Please don't. It shouldn't have been you.”

“Even if _you_ didn't think it, other people here did. Sonya was loved and she was doing such important work here. She was _so_ scared that day. I realized that I've lived most of my life thinking only about myself, about the next meal and the next shelter. I've been surviving, barely. It's time to be part of something bigger.”

“Okay,” John nods after staring at her for a while. “I understand. I've...been there, too, I suppose.”

“Do _you_ want me to come with you to D.C.?” Clarice asks, with a smile and a joking tone that doesn't cover up the seriousness of her question.

“Of course I do,” John says. “But you realize it's going to be difficult, don't you? I don't know where or how we're going to live, it's still possible that the Underground branch won't have anything to do with us. And whatever happens with my legs, it's not going to be easy for any of us.”

“I know. I'm okay with that. And I'm not exactly giving up on some perfectly safe white picket fence life to go on the run, you know. I don't have very high expectations.”

“What, you weren't hoping for a mansion and a dozen servants?” John laughs.

“A castle, at least! With hundred of acres of estate!”

Both of them laugh, and it feels good.

They'll never have a castle, and they'll never have that white picket fence life either. Maybe John will never walk again, and maybe Clarice will always jump at shadows. Maybe John will keep sacrificing himself, and maybe Clarice will keep running away.

But that's okay. Maybe they can do it together, instead of alone.

 

“You're sure you want to get up now?” Caitlin asks John the next morning. “It's breakfast time, everyone's here.”

“That's exactly why,” John answers. “Shatter and Fade are heading out this afternoon, and I want to speak to everyone before that.”

“Alright,” Caitlin agrees. She only has to help John get his clothes on, as they now keep the wheelchair by his bed so he can move when he needs to. The embarrassment of the first days is only a memory, John reflects as she ties his shoes for him. They've adapted to this, as to everything else.

Caitlin pushes him out into the main room, which is crowded as she predicted. John can feel heads turning toward him, and the immediate silence. He can almost track it, the moment each person sees him, and God he hates it. There are only about thirty-five people in the room, their whole station plus the mutants who were already here in Nashville, but he suddenly feels like he's in front of a crowd.

He might have hunched over, crossed his arms for protection if he had been able to, but instead he takes control of his wheelchair from Caitlin and pushes himself to the table. Clarice and Marcos are there, sitting at one end, and John hangs on to the trust in their face.

“Everyone please come closer,” he says, quieter than he wants to. His weak, tired body betrays him even for that. John clears his throat to say it again, but he doesn't need to, as his friends immediately relay his request and people start moving.

He takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the sympathy in the eyes staring down at him. He meets some of them instead, trying to make his gaze steady and reassuring.

“I'm sure by now you all know what happened to me,” he says. “I don't want compassion, or special treatment because of it, although some things will be inevitable. But what happened to our station is far more important. I am sorry that we weren't there to fight with you when the Sentinel Services found the bank. We should have been there. I take full responsibility for that.”

“You don't−” Shatter starts, but John raises a hand to stop him. There are too many things to say and he doesn't have enough energy for an argument.

“For all of us, the last few weeks have been traumatic and full of grief and pain,” he continues. “The station in Atlanta was our home for over three years. I know that a part of me has gone with it.”

Several people nod along to show their agreement, and John takes the time to look around the room. The looks have changed from pity to shared grief, in a moment of communion.

“Whatever happens now, the world as we knew it is gone. Things will change, some of us will part ways,” John says. “Before that happens, I want to take the time to acknowledge everything that we've been through together. Whether you've been with us for a few months,” he nods at the Struckers, then catches Clarice's eyes, giving her a small smile, “or since the beginning,” he shares a look with Lorna that contains more than any speech, “I want to thank you. We've fought long, and hard, and we've helped a lot of people.”

John pauses to take a breath. He eyes the grave faces of Lauren and her friends, children still and already fighting for their lives, and steels himself.

“I'm not going to lie to you. What's coming for mutants may be worse than ever  before .  There is little doubt that the recent attacks and raids on our stations were a declaration of war, and there are those among mutants who will encourage that.” 

John forbids himself from looking at Lorna. “ Some of you will leave today for Baltimore, and more in the coming weeks. But this is not an end. Our purpose will need to be stronger than ever to stand against the coming storm. We're−I am not giving up. I will keep fighting.”

“ But you're−”  someone starts. John looks over at Fade, who makes a doubtful but sorry gesture.

“Look, I'm injured, and I don't know if I will walk again,” he says. “But it's not some kind of a tragedy. It does not mean that my life is over. It's going to be different, for me, and for all of you too. But we can move forward.”

“ But  as you sa id , the world as we know it is gone,”  Marcos says. “So what do we do?”

“We start over. We take the chance we  a re offered to make a new place for ourselves, and we do our damnedest best to make it worthwhile.”

“ How?”

“We fight. We all have different skills, different ways we can contribute to our cause. We use every tool at our disposal, and we fight so that our children,” John nods to Lauren and Andy and the other teenagers, “can live in a world without fear.”

His eyes settle on Lorna, who nods furiously, one hand on her belly.  Clarice takes his hand under the table, and Marcos smiles at him with determination. It will be a long road, and they won't agree on everything along the way.  And maybe they'll never see the end of this war.

But they will fight  it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been quite a ride! This is the first long fic that I've written, and during its fairly short life it's seen this fandom rise up for season two and then dwindle down to nearly nothing. I want to thank everyone who's been there, who has left kudos and commented, and everyone who is reading from the shadows. I love you all. You lift me up so much.
> 
> Special thanks to eveningspirit for being her advice, hand holding, being there throughout when I had doubts and for being an amazing person. And to ittybittymattycommittee for religiously leaving detailed comments on every single chapter I post and for all the beautiful inspiring Gifted gifs you've made.
> 
> This is the end of this story, but it was always meant to be a series. My original plan involved a multi-chapter sequel that started six months later and was an alternate season 2. I doubt now that I'll do that, if only because by the time I'd had something ready to post, the fandom will have moved on completely, if it's not already the case. But I also don't want to leave this AU completely. 
> 
> I have a few things started that will likely become one-shots set during the six months before season 2, so I'll write those at least. Then maybe I'll try to recount some of that season 2 AU through shorter stories, instead of one big multi-chapter. If you want to be updated, you can subscribe to the series. And you can always find my other WIPs on my profile. I'm also active on Tumblr at [theemmaarthur](https://theemmaarthur.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thank you again for this great ride, and don't hesitate to comment your thoughts on this story, or even just leave a word or an emoji to tell me you've read until the end!


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